THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


806. 1 

PS69 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/picturesflowersfOOunse 


“ There  is  to  me 
A daintiness  about  these  early  flowers, 

That  touches  me  like  poetry.  They  blow  out 

With  such  a simple  loveliness  among 

The  common  herbs  of  pasture,  and  they  breathe 

go  unobtrusively,  like  hearts 

Whose  beatings  are  too  gentle  for  the  world.” 

Willis. 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS 


FOR 


CHILD-LOVERS. 


“ I love  God  and  every  little  child.” 

Jean  Paul. 

44  O,  each  of  these  young  human  flowers 
God’s  own  high  message  bears, 

And  we  are  walking  all  our  hours 
With  ‘ angels  unawares.’  ” 

R.  Edmonston*. 


BOSTON: 

WALKER,  FULLER,  AND  COMPANY, 

245  Washington  Street. 

1 8 6 5. 


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PRINTED  BY 

C.  RAND  & AVERY, 


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INTRODUCTORY. 


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May  the  reader,  in  turning  over  these  pages, 
have  a pleasure  as  pure  as  the  compiler  had 
in  arranging  the  Pictures,  and  gathering  the 
Flowers. 

In  regard  to  some  of  the  extracts,  it  may  be 
remarked,  that,  although  it  might  seem  almost 
like  sacrilege  to  take  detached  portions  of  some 
beautiful  poems,  it  was  required  by  the  nature 
xof  the  plan,  namely,  the  presenting  of  exquisite 
and  touching  pictures  of  infancy  and  child- 
hood. * 

A volume  combining  such  a range  of  selec- 
tions bearing  upon  these  subjects  it  is  believed 
cannot  fail  to  be  acceptable  wherever  the  influ- 
ence of  childhood  has  been  felt ; to  kindle  an 
interest  in  these  “ lords  of  the  household  and 
monarchs  of  the  heart,”  where  it  has  not. 


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CONTENTS 


PAOB 


Pleasant  Children, 

9 

My  Bird, 

Mrs.  Judson , . . 

11 

The  Little  Foot, 

12 

The  Mother’s  Heart, 

Mrs.  Norton , 

15 

Peter’s  Temper, 

William  Austin , . 

18 

A Graphic  Description  of  a Baby,  . . 

Knickerbocker , . 

19 

The  Return, 

Anonymous , . . 

22 

A Picture, 

Pray , .... 

23 

Threnodia.  [Extract], 

23 

The  Kitten  and  the  Falling  Leaves.  . . 

Wordsworth , . . 

25 

The  Child’s  Song.  [Extract],  . . . 

C.  Mackay , . . 

27 

The  Watcher, 

Anonymous , . . 

29 

Little  Bessie, 

u 

31 

To  a Child  in  Prayer, 

it 

31 

Child-Sleep, 

33 

On  my  First  Son, 

Ben  Jonson , . . 

84 

Curiosifcv, 

Charles  Sprague , 

35 

The  Morning-Glory,  ....... 

Lowell's  Poems , . 

36 

To  a Child, 

Joanna  Baillie , . 

39 

Harry’s  Letter, 

41 

Some  Account  of  a Remarkable  Baby,  . 

C.  Dickens , . . 

44 

The  Boy’s  Appeal, 

Anonymous , . . 

45 

VI 


CONTENTS, 


PAGE 

The  Unlucky  One, Hoffman,  ...  45 

Saturday  Afternoon, N.  P.  Willis , . . 46 

Gone.  [Extract],  .......  Whittier , ...  48 

Star-Child, Studies  in  Religion , 60 

Childhood  ever  Hopeful  and  Trustful,  . Words  in  a S.  School , 52 

To  Herman.  [Extract], J.  F.  Clarice , . . 52 

Our  Charlie, Thomas  Mackellar , 55 

Wee  Willie, Blackwood's  Mag.,  67 

The  Image  in  Lava, Mrs.  Hemans,  . 61 

To  our  Eldest  Heir, Mrs.  Coleridge , . 63 

Art  of  Being  Happy, N.  M.  Magazine , 65 

Willie  going  into  Breeches, Lamb , . . 66 

Domestic  Influence  of  Children,  . . . R.  H.  Dana , . . 68 

Early  Lost,  Early  Saved, G.W.  Bethune , . 73 

Health  and  Play  vs.  Tubercular  Virtue,  Dr.  0.  W.  Holmes , 76 

Buttercups  and  Daisies, Mary  Howitt , . . 79 

My  Child,  Pierpont , ...  80 

Joy  in  Sorrow.  [Extract],  ....  Alaric  A.  Watts , 83 

Resignation, Longfellow , . . 84 

Youth  Eternal, Words  in  a S.  School,  87 

Childhood, New  Monthly  Mag.,  88 

Babie  Bell, T.  B.  Aldrich,  . 92 

Extract  from  “ Elia,” Charles  Lamb,  . 97 

On  the  Flowering  Acacia.  [Extract],  . Fanny  Butler , . . 98 

A Child  is  Born, Browning,  ...  99 

Thoughts  while  she  rocks  the  Cradle,  . Dr.  E.  G.  Holland,  100 
The  Playful  School-Children,  ....  Shenstone,  . . . 102 

My  First  Play, Charles  Lamb,  . 104 

Versicles  (for  Fathers  and  Mothers  only),  J.  G.  Grant,  . . 105 
Extract  from  Ode  to  Immortality,  . . Wordsworth,  ..  . 108 
Some  Account  of  Family  Skirmishes,  . C.  Dickens,  . . 109 

The  Lost  Heir.  [Extract], T.  Hood,  . . . 112 

Wishes.  [Extract], Earl  of  Surrey,  . 110 

To  my  little  Cousin  with  her  first  Bonnet,  Mrs.  Southey,  . . 117 

Deaths  of  Little  Children, Leigh  Hunt,  . . 120 

The  Sickly  Babe, 121 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGE 

I Remember,  I Remember, T.  Hood,  . . . 122 

The  Three  Sons, Moultrie , . . . 125 

Little  Children, Montgomery , . . 130 

Childhood  Departed.  [Extract],  . . J.  R.  Lowell , . . 130 

The  Deserted  Garden.  [Extract],  . . Elizabeth  Barrett,  132 

Joyousness  of  Children, Richter , . . . 135 

To  my  Children  Sleeping, Anonymous , . . 136 

A Parental  Ode  to  my  Son, T.  Hood , . . . 137 

The  Gypsy  Child, Eliza  Cook,  . . . 140 

Tired  of  Play, N.  P.  Willis,  . . 142 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers,  ....  Longfelloiv,  . . 144 

The  Little  Step-Son, Anonymous , . . 146 

Morning, Words  in  a S.  School,  149 

Threnody.  [Extract], R.  W.  Emerson,  . 151 

Household  Treasures, Mary  Howitt , . . 154 

The  Star  and  the  Flower, Mrs.  Osgood,  . . 156 

The  Charge  of  Infantry, Knickerbocker , . 158 

Home.  [Extract], Anonymous,  . . 161 

Extract  from  “ King  John,”  ....  Shakespeare,  . . 162 

Our  Birthdays, T.  Hood,  . . . 163 

Fragment  from  the  List  of  “Daily  Trials,”  0.  W Holmes,  . 164 
The  Child  and  the  Gossamer,  . ...  S.  Lover , . . . 164 

The  Baby’s  Complaint,  .......  Fanny  Fern,  . . 165 

Good  Life,  Long  Life.  [Extract],  . . Ben  Jonson , . . 167 

The  Child’s  Reverie, Western  Evangelist , 168 

The  Childless, Mrs.  Abdy,  . . 170 

Childhood’s  Guardian  Angels,  . . . Coleridge , . . . 174 

To  a Step- Child, Louisville  Journal,  175 

The  Youngest, Anonymous , . . 177 

Pictures  of  Memory, Alice  Carey , . . 177 

On  an  Infant  dying  as  soon  as  born,  . Charles  Lamb,  . 179 

u The  Child  is  Father  of  the  Man,”  . . Wordsworth,  . . 182 

Death  of  an  Infant, Anonymous,  . . 183 

Extract  from  “ Macbeth,” Shakespeare,  . . 184 

The  Town  and  Country  Child,  . . . Cunningham , . . 185 

Extract  from  “ Two  April  Mornings,”  . Wordsworth , . . 189 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


Extract  from  “ Seasons  of  Prayer,”  . . II.  Ware , Jr.,  . . 

Child  and  Flower, Bryant , .... 

The  Early  Dead.  [Extract],  . ...  T.  Moore , . . . 

The  Death  of  a Child, Anonymous , . . 

My  Boy, Knickerbocker , 

The  Model  Baby, Punch , .... 

The  Open  Window, II.  W.  Longfellow , 

The  First  Snow-fall, J.  R.  Lowell , . . 

Two  Years  Old, Anonymous , . . 

Little  George’s  Sttory, Fanny  Fern , . . 

The  Bird’s-nest  in  the  Moon.  [Extract],  N.  E.  Magazine , 


PAGE 

190 

190 

191 

192 

193 
198 
200 
201 
203 
206 
207 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


PLEASANT  CHILDREN. 

Everywhere,  — everywhere,  — 

Like  the  butterfly’s  silver  wings, 

That  are  seen  by  all  in  the  summer  air, 

We  meet  with  these  beautiful  tilings ! 

And  the  low,  sweet  lisp  of  the  baby  child 
By  a thousand  hills  is  heard, 

And  the  voice  of  the  young  heart’s  laughter,  wild 
As  the  voice  of  a singing  bird  ! 

The  cradle  rocks  in  the  peasant’s  cot 
As  it  rocks  in  the  noble’s  hall, 

And  the  brightest  gift  in  the  loftiest  lot, 

Is  a gift  that  is  given  to  all ; — 


10 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


For  the  sunny  light  of  childhood’s  eyes 
Is  a boon  like  the  common  air, 

And,  like  the  sunshine  of  the  skies, 

It  falleth  everywhere ! 

They  tell  us  this  old  earth  no  more 
By  angel  feet  is  trod,  — 

They  bring  not  now,  as  they  brought  of  yore, 
The  oracles  of  God. 

O,  each  of  these  young  human  flowers 
God’s  own  high  message  bears, 

And  we  are  walking  all  our  hours 
With  “ angels,  unawares  ” ! 

By  stifling  street  and  breezy  hill 
We  meet  their  spirit  mirth : 

That  such  bright  shapes  should  linger  till 
They  take  the  stains  of  earth  ! 

0,  play  not  those  a blessed  part 
To  whom  the  boon  is  given, 

To  leave  their  errand  with  the  heart, 

And  straight  return  to  Heaven  ! 


MY  BIRD. 


11 


- 


MY  BIRD. 

Ere  last  year’s  moon  had  left  the  sky, 

A birdling  sought  my  Indian  nest, 

And  folded,  O so  lovingly ! 

Her  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  mom  till  evening’s  purple  tinge, 
In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies  ; 

Two  rose-leaves  with  a silken  fringe, 
Shut  softly  on  her  starry  eyes. 

There ’s  not  in  Ind  a lovelier  bird, 

Broad  earth  owns  not  a happier  nest ; 

0 God,  thou  hast  a fountain  stirred, 
Whose  waters  never  more  may  rest ! 

This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing, 

This  seeming  visitant  from  Heaven, 

This  bird  with  the  immortal  wing, 

To  me,  — to  me  thy  hand  hath  given. 


12 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke, 
The  blood  its  crimson  hue,  from  mine 
This  life  which  I have  dared  invoke, 
Henceforth  is  parallel  with  thine. 

A silent  awe  is  in  my  room,  — 

I tremble  with  delicious  fear  ; 

The  future,  with  its  light  and  gloom, 
Time  and  Eternity  are  here. 

Doubts,  hopes,  in  eager  tumult  rise ; 

Hear,  O my  God ! one  earnest  prayer 
Room  for  my  bird  in  Paradise, 

And  give  her  angel  plumage  there  ! 


THE  LITTLE  FOOT. 

My  boy,  as  gently  on  my  breast, 

From  infant  sport,  thou  sink’st  to  rest. 
And  on  my  hand  I feel  thee  put, 

In  playful  dreams,  thy  little  foot ; 


THE  LITTLE  FOOT. 


13 


The  thrilling  touch  sets  every  string 
Of  my  full  heart  to  quivering  ; 

For  ah  ! I think,  what  chart  can  show 
The  ways  through  which  this  foot  may  go  ? 

Its  print  will  be,  in  childhood’s  hours, 
Traced  in  the  garden,  round  the  flowers  ; 
But  youth  will  bid  it  leap  the  rills, 

Bathe  in  the  dew  on  distant  hills, 

Roam  o’er  the  vales,  and  venture  out 
When  riper  years  would  pause  and  doubt ; 
Nor  brave  the  pass,  nor  try  the  brink, 
Where  youth’s  unguarded  foot  may  sink. 

But  what,  when  manhood  tints  thy  cheek, 
Will  be  the  ways  this  foot  will  seek  ? 

Is  it  to  lightly  pace  the  deck, 

Helpless  to  slip  from  off  the  wreck  ? 

Or  wander  o’er  a foreign  shore, 

Returning  to  thy  home  no  more, 

Until  the  bosom  now  thy  pillow 
Is  low  and  cold  beneath  the  willow  ? 

Or,  is  it  for  the  battle-plain, 

Beside  the  slayer  and  the  slain  ? 


14 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Wilt  there  its  final  step  be  taken  ? 

There,  sleep  thine  eye  no  more  to  waken  ? 
Is  it  to  glory  or  to  shame,  — 

To  sully  or  to  gild  thy  name  ? 

Is  it  to  happiness  or  woe 
This  little  foot  is  made  to  go  ? 

But  wheresoe’er  its  lines  may  fall, 
Whether  in  cottage  or  in  hall, 

O,  may  it  ever  shun  the  ground 
Where’er  His  foot  was  never  found, 

Who  on  his  path  of  fife  hath  shed 
A living  light,  that  all  may  tread 
Upon  his  earthly  steps  ; and  none 
E’er  dash  the  foot  against  a stone  ! 


Which  would  a mother  value  most,  the  most  elegant  pair  of 
Parisian  slippers,  or  a little  worn-out  shoe,  once  filled  with  a 
precious # infant  foot,  now  walking  with  the  angels? 

Mrs.  Child. 


THE  MOTHER'S  HEART. 


15 


THE  MOTHER’S  HEART. 

When  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and  fond. 

My  eldest  born,  first  hope,  and  dearest  treasure, 

My  heart  received  thee  with  a joy  beyond 
All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure  : 

Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 
So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy  years, 

And  natural  piety  that  leaned  to  heaven  ; 

Wrung  by  a harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears, 

Yet  patient  of  rebuke  when  justly  given,  — 
Obedient,  easy  to  be  reconciled, 

And  meekly  cheerful,  — such  thou  wert,  my  child  ! 

Not  willing  to  be  left ; still  by  my  side, 

Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer  day  was  dying, 
Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn  ; but  pleased  to  glide 
Through  the  dark  room  where  I was  sadly  lying : 
Or  by  the  couch  of  pain  a sitter  meek, 

Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  feverish  cheek. 


16 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


O boy  ! of  such  as  thee  are  oftenest  made 
Earth’s  fragile  idols  ; like  a tender  flower, 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness,  — prone  to  fade, 
And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder-shower,  — 

Still  round  the  loved  thy  heart  found  force  to  bind, 
And  clung  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind ! 

But  thou , my  merry  love,  bold  in  thy  glee, 

Under  the  bough,  or  by  the  firelight  dancing, 

With  thy  sweet  temper  and  thy  spirits  free, 

Didst  come  as  restless  as  a bird’s  wing  glancing, 

Full  of  a wild  and  irrepressible  mirth, 

Like  a young  sunbeam  to  the  gladdened  earth ! 

Thine  was  the  shout ! the  song  ! the  burst  of  joy  ! 
Which  sweet  from  childhood’s  rosy  lip  resoundeth  ; 
Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  naught  could  cloy, 

And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief  reboundeth 
And  many  a mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply 
Lurk  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark  blue  eye  ! 

Amd  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  bless, 

The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness  warming ; 
The  coaxing  smile,  the  frequent  soft  caress, 

The  earnest,  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  disarming ; 


THE  MOTHER’S  HEART. 


17 

Again  my  heart  a new  affection  found, 

But  thought  that  love  with  thee  had  reached  its  bound. 

At  length  thou  earnest ; thou  the  last  and  least,  — 
Nicknamed  the  “Emperor”  by  thy  laughing  brothers, 
Because  a haughty  spirit  swelled  thy  breast, 

And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the  others  ; 
Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile, 

A mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile. 

And  O,  most  like  a regal  child  wert  thou  ! 

An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming ; 

Fair  shoulders,  curling  lip,  and  dauntless  brow, 

Fit  for  the  world’s  strife,  not  for  poet’s  dreaming : 

And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head, 

And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

Different  from  both  ! yet  each  succeeding  claim, 

I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing, 

Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same  ; 

Nor  injured  either  by  this  love’s  comparing, 

Nor  stole  a fraction  from  the  newer  call, 

But  in  the  Mother’s  Heart  found  room  for  all ! 


18 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


PETER’S  TEMPER. 

From  boyhood,  Peter’s  temper  was  altogether  un- 
governable, and  then  his  language  was  terrible.  In 
these  fits  of  passion,  if  a door  stood  in  his  way,  he 
would  never  do  less  than  kick  a panel  through.  He 
would  sometimes  throw  his  heels  over  his  head  and 
come  down  on  his  feet,  uttering  oaths  in  a circle  ; 
and  thus  in  a rage,  he  was  the  first  who  performed  a 
somerset,  and  did  what  others  have  since  learned  to 
do  for  merriment  and  money.  Once  he  was  seen  to 
bite  a tenpenny  nail  in  halves.  In  those  days,  every- 
body, both  men  and  boys,  wore  wigs ; and  Peter,  at 
these  moments  of  violent  passion,  would  become  so 
profane  that  his  wig  would  rise  up  from  his  head. 
Some  said  it  was  on  account  of  his  terrible  language. 
Others  accounted  for  it  in  a more  philosophical  way, 
and  said  it  was  caused  by  the  expansion  of  his  scalp ; 
as  violent  passion,  we  know,  will  swell  the  veins,  and 
expand  the  head.  While  these  fits  were  on  him, 
Peter  had  no  respect  for  heaven  or  earth.  Except 


A GRAPHIC  DESCRIPTION  OF  A BABY.  19 


tliis  infirmity,  all  his  school-fellows  and  playmates 
agreed  that  he  was  a very  good  sort  of  a boy ; for 
when  his  fits  were  over,  nobody  was  so  ready  to  com- 
mend a •placid  temper  as  Peter  ! 


A GRAPHIC  DESCRIPTION  OF  A BABY. 

Hurrah  ! Light  upon  the  world  again  ! It ’s  a glo- 
rious world ! magnificent ! quite  too  beautiful  to  leave  ; 
and  besides,  I would  rather  stay,  if  only  to  thank  God 
a.  little  longer  for  this  glorious  fight,  this  pure  air  that 
can  echo  back  my  loudest  hurrah.  And  then  my 
boy  — but  have  n’t  I told  you  ? Why,  sir,  I’ve  got 
a boy.  A BOY ! ha,  ha ! I shout  it  out  to  you,  — A 
BOY : fourteen  pounds,  and  the  mother  a great  deal 
better  than  could  be  expected  ! And  I say,  sir,  it ’s 
mine ! Hurrah  and  hallelujah  forever ! 0,  sir, 

such  legs,  such  arms,  and  such  a head ! and  O, 
Good  Heavens ! he  has  his  mother's  lips  ! I can  kiss 
them  forever ! and  then,  sir,  look  at  his  feet,  his 
hands,  his  chin,  his  eyes,  his  everything,  in  fact,  — 


20  PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 

80  “ so  perfectly  0.  K ! ” Give  me  joy,  sir  : no  you 
need  n’t  either]  I am  full  now ; I run  over ; and 
they  say  that  I ran  over  a number  of  old  women, 
half  killed  the  mother,  pulled  the  doctor  by  the  nose, 
and  upset  a ’pothecary  shop  in  the  corner  ; and  then 
did  n’t  I ring  the  tea-bell  ? Did  n’t  I blow  the  horn  ? 
Didn’t  I dance,  shout,  laugh,  and  cry  altogether? 
The  women  they  had  to  tie  me  up.  I don’t  be- 
lieve that ; but  who  is  going  to  shut  his  mouth  when 
he  has  a live  baby?  You  should  have  heard  his 
lungs,  sir,  at  the  first  mouthful  of  fresh  air,  — such 
a burst ! A little  tone  in  his  voice,  but  not  pain  ; 
excess  of  joy,  sir,  from  too  great  sensation.  The 
air-bath  was  so  sudden,  you  know. 

Think  of  all  his  beautiful  machinery  starting  off  at 
once  in  full  motion  ; all  his  thousand  outside  feelers 
answering  to  the  touch  of  the  cod  air;  the  flutter 
and  crash  at  the  ear,  and  that  curious  contrivance 
the  eye,  looking  out  wonderingly  and  bewildered 
upon  the  great  world,  so  glorious  to  his  unworn 
perceptions.  His  network  of  nerves,  his  wheels  and 
pulleys,  his  air-pumps  and  valves,  his  engines  and 
reservoirs ; and  within  all,  that  beautiful  fountain, 
with  its  jets  and  running  streams,  dashing  and  cours- 


A GRAPHIC  DESCRIPTION  OF  A BABY.  21 


ing  through  the  whole  length  and  breadth,  without 
stint  or  pause ; making  altogether,  sir,  exactly  four- 
teen. Did  I ever  talk  brown  to  you,  sir,  or  blue,  or 
any  other  of  the  Devil’s  colors  ? You  say  I have. 
Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  you  are  mistaken  in  the 
individual.  I am  this  day,  sir,  multiplied  by  two. 
I am  duplicate,  — I am  number  one  of  an  indefinite 
series,  and  there ’s  my  continuation.  And  you  ob- 
serve, sir,  it  is  not  a block,  nor  a blockhead,  nor  a 
painting,  nor  a bust,  nor  a fragment  of  anything, 
however  beautiful ; but  a combination  of  all  the  arts 
and  sciences  in  one  : painting,  sculpture,  music  (hear 
him  cry !),  mineralogy,  chemistry,  mechanics  (see  him 
kick !),  geography,  and  the  use  of  the  globes  (see 
him  nurse!),  and  withal,  he  is  a perpetual  motion, 
— a timepiece  that  will  never  run  down.  And  who 
wound  it  up?  But  words  are  but  a mouthing  and 
a mockery 

When  a man  is  nearly  crushed  under  obligations,  it 
is  presumed  he  is  unable  to  speak  ; but  he  may  bend 
over  very  carefully,  for  fear  of  falling,  nod  in  a small 
way,  and  say  nothing  ; and  then  if  he  have  sufficient 
presence  of  mind  to  lay  a hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
look  down  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  with  a 


22 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


motion  of  the  lips,  muttered  poetry,  showing  the  wish 
and  the  inability,  it  will  be  (well  done)  very  grace- 
fully expressive.  With  my  boy  in  his  first  integu- 
ments, I assume  that  position,  make  the  small  nod 
aforesaid,  and  leave  you  the  poetry  unmuttered. 


I hold  it  a religious  duty, 

To  love  and  worship  children’s  beauty; 

They ’ve  least  the  taint  of  earthly  clod, 

They  ’re  freshest  from  the  hand  of  God. 

With  heavenly  looks,  they  make  us  sure 
The  heaven  that  made  them  must  be  pure. 

Campbell, 


THE  RETURN. 

One  climbs  into  his  arms,  another 
Clings  smiling  round  his  knee ; 

A third  is  lifted  by  its  mother 
Its  father’s  face  to  see : 

The  cradled  innocent,  his  youngest  treasure, 

Holds  out  its  dimpled  arms,  and  crows  for  pleasure. 


0 banish  the  tears  of  children!  Continued  rains  upon  the 
blossoms  are  hurtful.  — Jean  Paul. 


TJIRENODIA. 


23 


A PICTURE. 

A laughing  boy,  above  a well 
Is  peeping  down.  He  cannot  tell 
What  spirit  is  below. 

He  wonders  if  he  sees  an  elf ; 

It  laughs  when  he  is  laughing. 

Is  it  the  semblance  of  himself, 

Or  some  one  water  quaffing  ? 

To  find  the  truth,  he  calls  aloud. 
Echo  but  mocks.  The  boy  is  proud, 
And  chiding  says,  “ I know.” 


THRENODIA. 

(Extract.) 

How  peacefully  they  rest, 

Crossfolded  there 
Upon  his  little  breast, 

Those  small  white  hands  that  ne’er  were  still  before ; 
But  ever  sported  with  his  mother’s  hair, 

Or  the  plain  cross  that  on  her  breast  she  wore ; 

2 


24 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Her  heart  no  more  will  beat 
To  feel  the  touch  of  that  soft  palm. 

That  ever  seemed  a new  surprise, 

Sending  glad  thoughts  up  to  her  eyes 
To  bless  him  with  their  holy  calm. 

Full  short  his  journey  was  ; no  dust 
Of  earth  unto  his  sandals  clave  ; 

The  weary  weight  that  old  men  must, 

He  bore  not  to  the  grave. 

He  seemed  a cherub  who  had  lost  his  way, 
And  wandered  hither  ; so  his  stay 
With  us  was  short ; and ’t  was  most  meet 
That  he  should  be  no  delver  in  earth’s  clod, 
Nor  need  to  pause  and  cleanse  his  feet 
To  stand  before  his  God, 

O blest  word,  — evermore  ! 


THE  KITTEN  AND  THE  FALLING  LEAVES.  25 


THE  KITTEN  AND  THE  FALLING  LEAVES. 

That  way  look,  my  infant,  lo  ! 

What  a pretty  baby-show  ! 

See  the  kitten  on  the  wall, 

Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall, 

Withered  leaves  — one  — two  — and  three  — 
From  the  lofty  elder-tree  ! 

But  the  kitten,  how  she  starts, 

Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts  ! 

First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow, 

Just  as  bright,  and  just  as  yellow  ; 

* There  are  many  now  — now  one  — 

Now  they  stop  ; and  there  are  none. 

What  intenseness  of  desire 
In  her  upward  eye  of  fire  ! 

With  a tiger-leap  half-way 
Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 

Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 
Has  it  in  her  power  again ; 

Now  she  works  with  three  or  four, 

Like  an  Indian  conjurer  ; 


2G 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art, 

F ar  beyond  in  joy  of  heart. 

’T  is  a pretty  baby-treat ; 

Nor,  I deem,  for  me  unmeet ; 

Here,  for  neither  babe  nor  me, 

Other  playmate  can  I see. 

Such  a light  of  gladness  breaks, 
Pretty  Kitten  ! from  thy  freaks,  — - 
Spreads  with  such  a living  grace 
O’er  my  little  Lizzie’s  face  ; 

Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 
Thee,  Baby,  laughing  in  my  arms, 
That  almost  I could  repine 
That  your  transports  are  not  mine,  — 
That  I do  not  wholly  fare 
Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  pair  ! 

And  I will  have  my  careless  season 
Spite  of  melancholy  reason  ; 

Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a way 
That,  when  time  brings  on  decay, 
Now  and  then  I may  possess 
Hours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 
Pleased  by  any  random  toy,  — 

By  a kitten’s  busy  joy, 


THE  CHILD’S  SONG. 


27 


Or  an  infant’s  laughing  eye 
Sharing  in  the  ecstasy,  — 

I would  fain,  like  that  or  this, 

Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss  ; 

Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake, 

And  have  faculties  to  take, 

Even  from  things  by  sorrow  wrought, 
Matter  for  a jocund  thought ; — 

Spite  of  care,  and  spite  of  grief, 

To  gambol  with  Life’s  falling  Leaf. 


THE  CHILD’S  SONG. 

A little  child,  beneath  a tree 
Sat  and  chanted  cheerily 
A little  song,  a pleasant  song, 

Which  was  — she  sang  it  all  day  long : 

“ When  the  wind  blows,  the  blossoms  fall ; 
But  a good  God  reigns  over  all.” 

There  passed  a lady  by  the  way, 

Moaning  in  the  face  of  day : 


23 


PICTURES  AND  FLO  AVERS. 


There  Avere  tears  upon  her  cheek, 

Grief  in  her  heart  too  great  to  speak ; 

For  she  but  a feAv  sad  days  before 
Had  lost  the  little  babe  she  bore ; 

And  grief  was  heavy  at  her  soul 
As  that  sweet  memory  o’er  her  stole, 

And  showed  how  bright  had  been  the  Past, 
The  Present  drear  and  overcast. 

She  stopped  and  listened  to  the  child 
That  looked  to  heaven,  and  singing,  smiled ; 
And  as  she  listened  to  the  song, 

Silver-toned  and  sweet  and  strong, 

Which  that  child,  the  livelong  day, 

Chanted  to  itself  in  play,  — 

“ When  the  wind  blows,  the  blossoms  fall, 
But  a good  God  reigns  over  all,”  — 

The  mother’s  lips  impulsive  moved, 

The  mother’s  grief,  though  unreproved, 
Softened,  as  her  trembling  tongue 
Repeated  what  the  infant  sung  ; 

And  though  the  child  — if  child  it  Avere, 
And  not  a seraph  sitting  there  — 

Was  seen  no  more,  the  sorrowing  one 
Went  on  her  way  resignedly, 


THE  WATCHER. 


29 


The  song  still  ringing  in  her  ears,  — 

Was  it  music  of  the  spheres  ? 

Who  shall  tell  ? She  did  not  know. 

But  in  the  midst  of  deepest  woe 
The  strain  recurred  when  sorrow  grew, 
To  warn  her,  and  console  her  too : 

“ When  the  wind  blows,  the  blossoms  fall, 
But  a good  God  reigns  over  all.” 


THE  WATCHER. 

Mother  ! watch  the  little  feet 
Climbing  o’er  the  garden  wall, 
Bounding  through  the  busy  street, 
Ranging  cellar,  shed,  and  hall. 
Never  count  the  moments  lost, 

Never  mind  the  time  it  costs  : 

Little  feet  will  go  astray  ; 

Guide  them,  mother,  while  you  may. 

Mother ! watch  the  little  hand 
Picking  berries  by  the  way  ; 
Making  houses  in  the  sand, 

Tossing  up  the  fragrant  hay. 


30 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Never  dare  the  question  ask, 

“ Why  to  me  this  weary  task  ? ” 
These  same  little  hands  may  prove 
Messengers  of  light  and  love. 


Mother  ! watch  the  little  tongue, 
Prattling  eloquent  and  wild, 

What  is  said,  and  what  is  sung, 

By  the  happy,  joyous  child. 

Catch  the  word  while  yet  unspoken  ; 
Stop  the  vow  while  yet  unbroken  ; 
This  same  tongue  may  yet  proclaim 
Blessings  in  the  Saviour’s  name. 


Mother  ! watch  the  little  heart, 
Beating  soft  and  warm  for  you ; 
Wholesome  lessons  now  impart ; 

Keep,  O keep  the  young  heart  true 
Exfricating  every  weed, 

Sowing  good  and  precious  seed, 

•v  Harvest  rich  you  then  may  see, 
Ripening  for  eternity. 


. 


o 


LITTLE  BESSIE. 


31 


LITTLE  BESSIE. 


And  the  mother  pressed  her  darling 
Closer  to  her  burdened  breast ; 
Next  the  heart  so  near  its  breaking, 
Lay  the  heart  so  near  its  rest ; 

At  the  solemn  hour  of  midnight, 

In  the  darkness  calm  and  deep, 
Lying  on  her  mother’s  bosom, 

Little  Bessie  fell  asleep  ! 


TO  A CHILD  IN  PLAYER. 

Fold  thy  little  hands  in  prayer, 

Bow  down  at  thy  Maker’s  knee, 

Now  thy  sunny  face  is  fair, 

Shining  through  thy  golden  hair, 

Thine  eyes  are  passion-free  ; 

And  pleasant  thoughts  like  garlands  bind  thee  • 
Unto  thy  home,  yet  grief  may  find  thee,  — 
Then  pray,  child,  pray. 

2 * 


32 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Now  thy  young  heart,  like  a bird, 

Singeth  in  its  summer  nest, 

No  evil  thought,  no  unkind  word, 

No  bitter,  angry  voice  hath  stirred 
The  beauty  of  its  rest ; 

But  winter  cometh,  and  decay 
Wasteth  thy  verdant  home  away  ; 

Then  pray,  child,  pray. 


Thy  spirit  is  a house  of  glee, 

And  gladness  harpeth  at  the  door, 

While  ever  with  a merry  shout, 

Hope,  the  May  Queen,  danceth  out, 

Her  lips  with  music  running  o’er ; 

But  Time  those  strings  of  joy  will  sever, 
And  Hope  will  not  dance  on  forever ; 

Then  pray,  child,  pray. 


Now  thy  mother’s  hymn  abideth, 
Bound  thy  pillow  in  the  night, 
And  gentle  feet  creep  to  thy  bed, 
And  o’er  thy  quiet  face  is  shed 
The  taper’s  darkened  light. 


CHILD-SLEEP. 


33 


But  that  sweet  hymn  shall  pass  away, 

By  thee  no  more  those  feet  shall  stay  ; 

Then  pray,  child,  pray. 


CHILD-SLEEP. 

But  a child  ! that  bids  the  world  good  night 
In  downright  earnest,  and  cuts  it  quite,  — 

Is  a cherub  no  art  can  copy  ; — 


34 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


His  bed  is  a perfect  halcyon  nest,  — 

All  calm,  and  balm,  and  quiet,  and  rest. 
’T  is  a perfect  picture  to  see  him  lie, 

As  if  he  had  supped  on  dormouse  pie, 
(An  ancient  classical  dish,  by  the  by,) 
With  a sauce  of  the  syrup  of  poppy. 


ON  MY  FIRST  SON. 

Farewell,  thou  child  of  my  right  hand,  and  joy 
My  sin  was  too  much  hope  of  thee,  loved  boy  : 
Seven  years  thou  wert  lent  to  me,  and  I thee  pay 
Exacted  by  thy  fate  on  the  just  day. 

O,  could  I lose  all  father  now  ! for  why 
Will  man  lament  the  state  he  should  envy  ? 

To  have  so  soon  ’scaped  world’s  and  flesh’s  rage, 
And  if  no  other  misery,  yet  age  ? 

Rest  in  soft  peace,  and  asked,  say  here  doth  lie 
Ben  Jonson,  his  best  piece  of  poetry  ! 


CURIOSITY. 


35 


CURIOSITY. 

(Extract.) 

In  the  pleased  infant  see  its  power  expand, 

When  first  the  coral  fills  his  little  hand  ; 

Throned  in  his  mother’s  lap,  it  dries  each  tear, 

As  her  sweet  legend  falls  upon  his  ear ; 

Next  it  assails  him  in  his  top’s  strange  hum 
Breathes  in  his  whistle,  echoes  in  his  drum  ; 

Each  gilded  toy  that  doting  love  bestows, 

He  longs  to  break,  and  every  spring  expose. 

Placed  by  your  hearth,  with  what  delight  he  pores 
O’er  the  bright  pages  of  his  pictured  stores  ! 

How  oft  he  steals  upon  your  graver  task, 

Of  this  to  tell  you,  and  of  that  to  ask ! 

And,  when  the  waning  hour  to  bedward  bids, 
Though  gentle  sleep  sit  waiting  on  his  lids, 

How  winningly  he  pleads  to  gain  you  o’er, 

That  he  may  read  one  little  story  more ! 

Nor  yet  alone  to  toys  or  tales  confined, 

It  sits,  dark-brooding,  o’er  his  embryo  mind. 

Take  him  between  your  knees,  peruse  his  face, 
While  all  you  know,  or  think  you  know,  you  trace ; 


36 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Tell  him  who  spoke  creation  into  birth, 

Arched  the  broad  heavens,  and  spread  the  rolling 
earth ; 

Who  formed  a pathway  for  the  obedient  sun, 

And  bade  the  seasons  in  their  circles  run ; 

Who  tilled  the  air,  the  forest,  and  the  flood, 

And  gave  man  all,  for  comfort  or  for  food  ; 

Tell  him  they  sprang  at  God’s  creating  nod,  — 

He  stops  you  short  with,  “ Father,  who  made  God  ? ” 


The  tear  down  childhood’s  cheek  that  flows, 

Is  like  the  dew-drop  on  the  rose ; 

When  next  the  summer  breeze  comes  by, 

The  bush  is  waved,  the  flower  is  dry. 

Walter  Scott. 


THE  MORNING-GLORY. 

We  wreathed  about  our  darling’s  head  the  morning- 
glory  bright ; 

Her  little  face  looked  out  beneath,  so  full  of  life  and 
light, 


THE  MORNING-GLORY. 


37 


So  lit  as  with  a sunrise,  that  we  could  only  say, 

She  is  the  morning-glory  true,  and  her  poor  types 
are  they. 

So  always  from  that  happy  time  we  called  her  by 
their  name, 

' And  very  fitting  did  it  seem,  for,  sure  as  morning 
came, 

Behind  her  cradle-bars  she  smiled  to  catch  the  first 
faint  ray, 

As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  flower  and  opens  to  the 
day. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear  their  airy  cups  of  blue, 

As  turned  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light  brimmed  with 
sleep’s  tender  dew ; 

And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine  round  their  sup- 
ports are  thrown, 

As  those  dear  arms  whose  outstretched  plea  clasped 
all  hearts  to  her  own. 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come,  even  as  comes 
the  flower, 

The  last  and  perfect  added  gift  to  crown  love’s  morn- 
. * irig  hour, 


38 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth  the  love  we  could 
not  say, 

As  on  the  little  dew-drops  round  shines  back  the 
heart  of  day. 


We  never  could  have  thought,  O God,  that  she  must 
wither  up, 

Almost  before  a day  was  flown,  like  the  morning- 
glory’s  cup  ; 

We  never  thought  to  see  her  droop  her  fair  and 
noble  head, 

Till  she  lay  stretched  before  our  eyes,  wilted,  and 
cold,  and  dead. 


The  morning-glory’s  blossoming  will  soon  be  coming 
round ; 

We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves  upspring- 
ing  from  the  ground ; 

The  tender  things  the  winter  killed  renew  again  their 
birth, 

But  the  glory  of  our  morning  has  passed  away  from 
earth. 


TO  A CHILD. 


39 


O Earth,  in  vain  our  aching  eyes  stretch  over  thy 
green  plain ! 

Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  gross  thine  air,  her  spirit  to 
sustain ; 

But  up  in  groves  of  Paradise  full  surely  we  shall  see 
Our  morning-glory  beautiful  twine  round  our  dear 
Lord’s  knee. 


TO  A CHILD. 

Whose  imp  art  thou,  with  dimpled  cheek, 
And  curly  pate,  and  merry  eye, 

And  arm  and  shoulders  round  and  sleek, 
And  soft  and  fair,  — thou  urchin  sly  ? 

What  boots  it  who,  with  sweet  caresses, 
First  called  thee  his,  or  squire,  or  hind  ? - 
Since  thou,  in  every  wight  that  passes, 

Dost  now  a friendly  playmate  find. 


40 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Thy  downcast  glances,  grave  but  cunning, 

As  fringed  eyelids  rise  and  fall,  — 

Thy  shyness,  swiftly  from  me  running,  — 

’T  is  infantine  coquetry  all ! 

But  far  afield  thou  hast  not  flown : 

With  mocks  and  threats,  half  lisped,  half  spoken, 

I feel  thee  pulling  at  my  gown, — 

Of  right  good-will  thy  simple  token. 

And  thou  must  laugh  and  wrestle  too,  — 

A mimic  warfare  with  me  waging : 

To  make,  as  wily  lovers  do, 

Thine  after-kindness  more  engaging  ! • 

The  wilding  rose  sweet  as  thyself, 

And  new-crop  daisies,  are  thy  treasures ; 

I ’d  gladly  part  with  worldly  pelf, 

To  taste  again  thy  youthful  pleasures. 

But  yet,  for  all  thy  merry  look, 

Thy  frisks  and  wiles,  the  time  is  coming 

When  thou  shalt  sit  in  cheerless  nook, 

The  weary  spell  of  horn-book  thumbing. 


harry’s  letter. 


41 


Well,  let  it  be ! Through  weal  and  woe, 
Thou  know’st  not  now  thy  future  range  : 
Life  is  a motley,  shifting  show,  — 

And  thou,  a thing  of  hope  and  change. 


But  all  ! what  light  and  little  things 
Are  childhood’s  woes  : they  break  no  rest  ; 
Like  dew-drops  on  the  skylark’s  wings, 

Gone  in  a moment,  when  she  springs 
To  meet  the  air  with  open  breast. 


H AERY’S  LETTER. 

Dear  Bill  : — 

Here  I am  in  Lincolnshire.  Now  I ’ll  tell  you 
what  I want.  I want  you  to  come  down  here  for 
the  holidays.  Don’t  be  afraid.  Ask  your  sister 
to  ask  your  mother  to  ask  your  father  to  let  you 
come.  It ’s  only  ninety  miles.  If  you  ’re  out  of 


42 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


pocket-money,  you  can  walk,  and  beg  a lift  now 
and  then,  or  swing  by  the  dickeys.  Put  on  cordu- 
roys, and  don’t  care  for  cut  behind.  The  two  pren- 
tices, George  and  Nick,  are  here  to  be  made  far- 
mers of,  and  brother  Frank  is  took  home  from  school 
to  help  in  agriculture.  We  like  farming  very  much, 
it  ’s  capital  fun.  Us  four  have  got  a gun,  and  go 
out  shooting : it  ’&  a famous  good  one,  and  sure  to 
go  off  if  you  don’t  full  cock  it.  Tiger  is  to  be  our 
shooting  dog  as  soon  as  he  has  left  off  killing  the 
sheep.  He ’s  a real  savage,  and  worries  cats  beau- 
tiful. Before  father  comes  down,  we  mean  to  bait 
our  bull  with  him. 

There ’s  plenty  of  New  Rivers  about,  and  we  ’re 
going  a fishing  as  soon  as  we  have  mended  our  top 
joint.  We  ’ve  killed  one  of  our  sheep  on  the  sly 
to  get  gentles.  We  ’ve  a pony  too,  to  ride  upon 
when  we  can  catch  him,  but  he ’s  loose  in  the  pad- 
dock,  and  has  neither  mane  nor  tail  to  signify  to  lay 
hold  of.  Is  n’t  it  prime,  Bill  ? You  must  come.  If 
your  mother  won’t  give  your  father  leave  to  allow 
you,  — run  away.  There  ’s  a pond  full  of  frogs, 
but  we  won’t  pelt  them  till  you  come,  but  let  it  be 
before  Sunday,  as  there ’s  our  own  orchard  to  rob, 
and  the  fruit ’s  to  be  gathered  on  Monday. 


harry’s  letter. 


43 


If  you  like  sucking  raw  eggs,  we  know  where 
the  hens  lay,  and  mother  don’t ; and  I ’m  bound 
there ’s  lots  of  birds’  nests.  Do  come,  Bill,,  and  I ’ll 
show  you  the  wasp’s  nest,  and  everything  to  make 
you  comfortable.  I dare  say  you  could  borrow  your 
father’s  volunteer  musket  of  him  without  his  know- 
ing it ; but  be  sure  any  how  to  bring  the  ramrod,  as 
we  ’ve  mislaid  ours  by  firing  it  off*  Don’t  forget 
some  bird-lime,  Bill,  and  some  fish-hooks,  — and  some 
different  sorts  of  shot,  — and  some  gunpowder, — 
and  a gentle-box,  and  some  flints,  — some  May-flies, 
and  a powder-horn,  — and  a landing-net,  — and  a 
dog-whistle,  — and  some  porcupine-quills,  and  a bul- 
let-mould, — and  a trolling-winch,  and  a shot-belt,  — - 
and  a tin-can.  You  pay  for  ’em,  Bill,  and  I ’ll 
owe  it  you. 

Your  old  friend  and  schoolfellow, 

Harry. 


“ When  children  are  doing  nothing,  they  are  doing  mischief” 


44 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  A REMARKABLE  BABY. 

It  was  a peculiarity  of  this  baby  to  be  always 
cutting  teeth.  Whether  they  never  came,  or  whether 
they  came  and  went  away  again,  is  not  in  evidence ; 
but  it  had  certainly  cut  enough,  on  the  showing  of 
its  mother,  to  make  a handsome  dental  provision  for 
the  sign  of  the  Bull  and  Mouth.  All  sorts  of  objects 
were  impressed  for  the  rubbing  of  its  gums,  notwith- 
standing that  it  always  carried,  dangling  at  its  waist 
(which  was  immediately  under  its  chin),  a bone  ring, 
large  enough  to  have  represented  the  rosary  of  a 
young  nun.  Knife-handles,  umbrella-tops,  the  heads 
of  walking-sticks  selected  from  the  stock,  the  fingers 
of  the  family,  nutmeg-graters,  crusts,  the  handles  of 
doors,  and  the  cool  knobs  on  the  tops  of  pokers, 
were  among  the  commonest  instruments  indiscrimi- 
nately applied  for  the  baby’s  relief.  The  amount  of 
electricity  that  must  have  been  rubbed  out  of  it  in 
a week  is  not  to  be  calculated.  Still  its  mother 
always  said,  “It  was  coming  through , and  then  the 
child  would  he  herself”  and  still  it  never  did  come' 
through,  and  the  child  continued  to  be  somebody  else. 


THE  UNLUCKY  ONE. 


45 


THE  BOY'S  APPEAL. 

0,  why  must  my  face  be  washed  so  clean, 

And  rubbed  and  scrubbed  for  Sunday  ? 

When  you  very  well  know,  as  you  often  have  seen, 
’T  will  be  dirty  again  on  Monday  ? 

You  rub  as  hard  as  ever  you  can, 

And  your  hands  are  rough,  to  my  sorrow  ; 

No  woman  shall  wash  me  when  I ’m  a man  ; 

And  I wish  I was  one  to-morrow  ! 


THE  UNLUCKY  ONE. 

Extract  from  the  u Golden  Pot.” 

Or  a truth,  I am  born  to  losses  and  crosses  for 
my  life  long!  When,  in  boyhood,  at  Odds  or 
Evens,  I could  never  once  guess  the  right  way ; 
my  bread  and  butter  always  fell  on  the  buttered 


46 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


side.*  Did  I ever  put  on  a new  garment,  with- 
out the  first  day  smearing  it  with  tallow,  or,  on 
some  ill-fastened  nail  or  other,  tearing  a ragged 
hole  in  it? 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

I loye  to  look  on  a scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 

And  persuade  myself  that  I am  not  old,  * 
And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray. 

For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man’s  heart, 
And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 

To  catch  the  thrill  of  a happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a pleasant  eye. 

I have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years, 
And  they  say  that  I am  old  ; 

* “ I never  had  a piece  of  bread 
Particularly  large  and  wide, 

But  fell  upon  the  sanded  floor. 

And  always  on  the  buttered  side.  ” 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 


47 


That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper,  Death, 
And  my  years  are  well-nigh  told. 

It  is  very  true,  — it  is  very  true,  — 

I ’m  old,  and  I “ bide  my  time,”  — 

But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a scene  like  this, 
And  I half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on  ! play  on  ! I am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring ; 

I can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 

And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 

I hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  I whoop  the  smothered  call, 

And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I care  not  for  the  fall. 

I am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 
And  I shall  be  glad  to  go, 

For  the  world,  at  best,  is  a weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low ; 

But  the  grave  is  dark,  and*  the  heart  will  fail 
In  treading  its  gloomy  way  ; 

And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 

3 


48 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


GONE. 

“ The  good  die  first.” 

Another  hand  is  beckoning  on, 
Another  call  is  given  ; 

And  glows  once  more  with  angel  steps 
The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 

Our  youngest,  she  whose  infant  smile 
Made  brightest  summer  hours, 

Amid  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 
Has  left  us  with  the  flowers. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 
Forewarned  us  of  decay, 

No  shadow  from  the  silent  land, 

Fell  round  our  sister’s  way. 

The  light  of  her  young  life  went  down 
As  sinks  behind  the  hill 

The  glory  of  a setting  star,  — 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 


GONE. 


49 


The  blessing  of  her  lovely  life 
Fell  on  us  like  the  dew  ; 

And  pure  thoughts  where  her  footsteps  pressed 
Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 
Were  in  her  very  look  : 

We  read  her  face  as  one  who  reads 
A true  and  holy  book. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 

And  by  the  hearth’s  fire-light ; 

We  pause  beside  her  room  to  hear 
Once  more  her  sweet,  “ Good  night.” 

There  seems  a shadow  in  the  day 
Her  smile  no  longer  cheers, 

A dimness  on  the  stars  of  night 
Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father’s  will 
One  thought  hath  reconciled  ; 

That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 
Hath  taken  home  his  child. 


50 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Fold  her,  0 Father  ! in  thine  arms 
And  let  her  henceforth  be 
A messenger  of  love  between 
Our  human  hearts  and  thee. 


STAR-CHILD. 

In  a pleasant  chamber,  close  beside 
A lofty  window,  deep  and  wide, 

Stood  a little  bed,  in  whose  bosom  deep 
A young  boy  went  to  his  nightly  sleep. 

The  window  was  as  a crystal  door, 

Opening  out  on  the  silent  night ; 

And  the  radiance  of  the  clear  starlight 
Lay  in  white  streaks  on  the  chamber  floor, 

And  shone  on  the  pillow  and  the  bed, 

And  brightened  the  sleeper’s  beautiful  head. 

And  all  the  night,  as  one  by  one, 

The  shining  stars  went  up  the  sky, 

They  paused  and  looked  through  that  window  high, 


STAR-CHILD. 


51 


And  as  each  and  every  star  in  turn, 

Like  a crown  of  silver  lustre  shone, 

Round  the  head  of  the  boy,  more  still  and  deep, 
More  starry  and  bright,  grew  his  innocent  sleep. 

One  night  he  awoke  ; and  one  star,  alone, 
Through  that  lofty  casement  was  shining  down  ; 
He  gazed,  and  he  gazed,  till  it  grew  like  an  eye, 
Placid  and  clear,  in  the  midnight  sky ; 

Then  the  boy  looked  trustfully  up,  and  smiled, 
And  the  star  looked  brightly  back  to  the  child. 
The  morrow,  he  went  to  his  pictures  and  play. 
But  ever  and  often  he  turned  him  away, 

And  smiled  to  his  thought,  as  though  a fair  dream 
Were  passing  him  and  his  sports  between  ; 

The  mother  questions  him  gently  the  while, 

“ Why  does  my  boy  look  upward  and  smile  ? ” 

“ O mother,  O mother,  I would  you  might  see 
The  beautiful  angel  that’s  watching  me  ! ” 


52 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


CHILDHOOD  EVER  HOPEFUL  AND  TRUSTFUL. 

While  childhood’s  light  and  hope  is  above  us, 

Many  and  near  seem  the  pleasant  fountains, 

And  a wide,  sweet  shade  are  the  hearts  that  love  us, 
As  the  vale  is  kept  cool  by  its  guarding  mountains. 

And  every  moss  has  its  moisture  cool, 

And  every  leaf  its  drop  of  dew, 

And  every  covert  its  glancing  pool, 

And  by  every  rock  a spring  bursts  through. 


TO  HERMAN. 

Where  is  my  boy  ? 

It  seems  but  an  hour  ago, 

He  was  digging  in  the  snow, 

Joy  and  love  in  his  face, 

In  his  hands  a nameless  grace, 

As  he  lifted  the  heavy  spade 
— The  little  path  he  made, 


TO  HERMAN. 


53 


Half  in  work,  half  in  play, 

Has  not  yet  melted  away. 

You  may  see  it  in  the  snow, 

Lingering  as  loath  to  go. 

But  he  has  melted  and  gone,  — 

Gone  into  earth  or  air, 

Leaving  us  so  alone ! 

Where  is  my  boy,  — O where  ? 

Beautiful  child ! 

All  hearts  were  drawn  around  thee  by  thy  manners 
sweet ; 

Those  loved  to  question  thee  whom  thou  didst  meet ; 

Noting  within  thy  speaking  eye 

The  careful  thought  moulding  the  just  reply. 

That  beauty  which  adorned  the  dusty  street, 
Suddenly  passed  away. 

We,  unawares,  had  talked  and  smiled 
With  an  angel  undefiled. 

Our  eyes  were  holden,  and  we  did  not  know 
That  thou  so  soon  must  go. 

Happy  were  we 

Eight  years  that  life  to  see. 


54 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Eight  years  to  reap  the  harvest  of  that  love, 

That  draught  of  beauty  every  day  to  drain, 

Each  day  to  watch  that  soul  without  a stain. 
Happy  we  are ! 

For  though  we  stand  alone, 

Like  the  disciples,  gazing  up  to  heaven 
Toward  our  ascended  One, 

We  know  that  God,  who  takes  what  he  has  given, 
Never  a soul  forsakes, 

And  surely  gives  again  that  which  he  takes. 

He  who  has  passed  above  the  sky, 

Has  gone  in  Time,  — comes  in  Eternity. 

This  earth  was  not  his  sphere  : 

Long  enough  he  lingered  here ! 

What  was  ours  to  teach,  he  learned ; 

Then  passed  inward,  and  returned. 

By  no  circuitous  w.ay  of  sin  and  pain 
He  went  to  Heaven  again ; 

But  by  a path  direct  pursued  his  way, 

A steady  brightening  toward  the  perfect  day. 

As  from  the  world  of  sense  our  boy  departs, 

God  brings  him  nearer  to  our  heart  of  hearts ; 


OUR  CHARLIE. 


55 


Sheds  sacred  lustre  on  the  infant’s  brow, 

Makes  him  our  guardian  and  our  angel  now ; 

His  young  feet  pressed  Death’s  portal  without  fear, 
To  lift  our  death-like  thoughts,  and  bring  Heaven  near. 


OUR  CHARLIE. 

A little  son  — an  only  son  — have  we ; 

(God  bless  the  lad,  and  keep  him  night  and  day, 
And  lead  him  softly  o’er  the  stony  way !) 

He  is  blue-eyed,  and  flaxen  hair  has  he, 

(Such  long  ago  mine  own  was  wont  to  be,  — 
And  people  say  he  much  resembles  me.) 

I ’ve  never  heard  a bird  or  runlet  sing 
So  sweetly  as  he  talks.  His  words  are  small, 
Sweet  words  — 0,  how  deliciously  they  fall ! — 
Much  like  the  sound  of  silver  bells  they  ring, 
And  fill  the  house  with  music.  Beauty  lies 
As  naturally  upon  his  cheek  as  bloom 
Upon  a peach.  Like  morning  vapor,  flies 

Before  his  smile  my  mind’s  unfrequent  gloom. 

3* 


56 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


A jocund  child  is  he,  and  full  of  fun : 

He  laughs  with  happy  heartiness ; and  he 
His  half-closed  eyelids  twinkles  roguishly, 

Till  from  their  lashes  tears  start  up  and  run. 

The  drops  are  bright  as  diamonds.  When  they  roll 
Adown  his  cheek  they  seem  to  be  the  o’erflowing 
Of  the  deep  well  of  love  within  his  soul,  — 

The  human  tenderness  of  his  nature  showing. 

’T  is  pleasant  to  look  upon  him  while  he  sleeps : 

His  plump  and  chubby  arms,  and  delicate  fingers,  — 
The  half-formed  smile  that  round  his  red  lip  creeps : 
The  intellectual  glow  that  faintly  lingers 
Upon  his  countenance,  as  if  he  talks 
With  some  bright  angel  on  his  nightly  walks. 

We  tremble  when  we  think  that  many  a storm 
May  beat  upon  him  in  the  time  to  come,  — 

That  his  now  beautiful  and  fragile  form 
May  bear  a burden  sore  and  wearisome. 

Yet  so  the  stain  of  guiltiness  and  shame 
Be  never  placed  upon  his  soul  and  name,  — 

So  he  preserves  his  virtue  though  he  die,  — 

And  to  his  God,  his  race,  his  country,  prove 
A faithful  man,  whom  praise  nor  glory  can  buy, 

Nor  threats  of  vile,  designing  men  can  move, 


WEE  WILLIE. 


57 


We  ask  no  more.  We  trust  that  He,  who  leads 
The  footsteps  of  the  feeble  lamb,  will  hold 
This  lamb  of  ours  in  mercy’s  pasture  fold, 

Where  every  inmate  near  the  loving  Shepherd  feeds. 


WEE  WILLIE. 

Fare-thee-well,  our  last  and  fairest, 
Dear  wee  Willie,  fare-thee-well ! 

He  who  lent  thee  hath  recalled  thee 
Back  with  him  and  his  to  dwell. 
Fifteen  moons  their  silver  lustre 
Only  o’er  thy  brow  had  shed, 

When  thy  spirit  joined  the  seraphs, 
And  thy  dust  the  dead. 

Like  a sunbeam  through  our  dwelling 
Shone  thy  presence  bright  and  calm  ! 
Thou  didst  add  a zest  of  pleasure ; 

To  our  sorrows  thou  wert  balm  — 


58 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Brighter  beamed  thine  eyes  than  summer  ; 

And  thy  first  attempt  at  speech 
Thrilled  our  heart-strings  with  a rapture 
Music  ne’er  could  reach. 

As  we  gazed  upon  thee  sleeping, 

With  thy  fine,  fair  locks  outspread, 

Thou  didst  seem  a little  angel, 

Who  from  heaven  to  earth  had  strayed ; 
And,  entranced,  we  watched  the  vision, 
Half  in  hope  and  half  affright, 

Lest  what  we  deemed  ours,  and  earthly, 
Should  dissolve  in  light. 

Snows  o’ermantled  hill  and  valley, 

Sullen  clouds  obscured  the  sky, 

When  the  first  drear  doubt  oppressed  us, 
That  our  child  was  doomed  to  die ! 
Through  each  long  night-watch  the  taper 
Showed  the  hectic  of  thy  cheek, 

And  each  anxious  dawn  beheld  thee 
More  worn  out  and  weak. 

T was  e’en  then  Destruction’s  angel 
Shook  his  pinions  o’er  our  path,  — 


WEE  WILLIE. 


59 


Seized  the  rosiest  of  our  household, 

And  struck  Charlie  down  in  death,  — * 
Fearful,  awful  Desolation 
On  our  lintel  set  his  sign ; 

And  we  turned  from  his  sad  death-bed, 
Willie,  round  to  thine  ! 

As  the  beams  of  Spring’s  first  morning 
Through  the  silent  chamber  played, 
Lifeless,  in  mine  arms  I raised  thee, 

And  in  thy  small  coffin  laid ; 

Ere  the  day-star  with  the  darkness 
Nine  times  had  triumphant  striven, 

In  one  grave  had  met  your  ashes, 

And  your  souls  in  Heaven ! 

Five  were  ye,  the  beauteous  blossoms 
Of  our  hopes  and  hearts  and  hearth; 
Two  asleep  lie  buried  under, 

Three  for  us  yet  gladden  earth  : 

Thee,  our  hyacinth,  gay  Charlie, 

Willie,  thee  our  snow-drop  pure, 

Back  to  us  shall  second  spring-time 
Never  more  allure ! 


60 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Yet  while  thinking,  0 our  lost  ones ! 

Of  how  dear  ye  were  to  us, 

Why  should  dreams  of  doubt  and  darkness 
Haunt  our  troubled  spirits  thus  ? 

Why  across  the  cold,  dim  churchyard 
Flit  our  visions  of  despair  ? 

Seated  on  the  tomb,  Faith’s  angel 
Says,  “ Ye  are  not  there ! ” 

Where,  then,  are  ye  ? With  the  Saviour 
Blest,  forever  blest,  are  ye, 

’Mid  the  sinless,  little  children, 

Who  have  heard  his  “ Come  to  me  ! ” 
’Yond  the  shades  of  death’s  dark  valley, 
Now  ye  lean  Upon  his  breast, 

Where  the  wicked  dare  not  enter, 

And  the  weary  rest ! 

We  are  wicked,  — we  are  weary,  — 

For  us  pray,  and  for  us  plead ; 

God,  who  ever  hears  the  sinless, 

May  through  you  the  sinful  heed  ; 

Pray  that  through  Christ’s  mediation, 

All  our  faults  may  be  forgiven  ; 

Plead  that  ye  may  be  sent  to  greet  us 
At  the  gates  of  Heaven  ! 


THE  IMAGE  IN  LAYA. 


61 


THE  IMAGE  IN  LAYA. 

The  impression  of  a woman’s  form,  with  an  infant  clasped  to 
her  bosom,  was  found  at  the  uncovering  of  Herculaneum. 

Thou  thing  of  years  departed  ! 

What  ages  have  gone  by, 

Since  here  the  mournful  seal  was  set 
By  love  and  agony  ! 

Temple  and  tower  have  mouldered, 

Empires  from  earth  have  passed, 

And  woman’s  heart  hath  left  a trace 
Those  glories  to  outlast ! 

And  childhood’s  fragile  image 
Thus  fearfully  enshrined, 

Survives  the  proud  memorials  reared 
By  conquerors  of  mankind. 

Babe  ! wert  thou  calmly  slumbering 
Upon  thy  mother’s  breast, 

When  suddenly  the  fiery  tomb 
Shut  round  each  gentle  guest  ? 


62 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


A strange,  dark  fate  o’ertook  you, 

Fair  babe  and  loving  heart ! 

One  moment  of  a thousand  pangs 
Yet  better  than  to  part ! 

Haply  of  that  fond  bosom, 

On  ashes  here  impressed, 

Thou  wert  the  only  treasure,  child ! 
Whereon  a hope  might  rest. 

Perchance  all  vainly  lavished, 

Its  other  love  had  been, 

And  where  it  trusted,  naught  remained 
But  thorns  on  which  to  lean. 

Far  better,  then,  to  perish, 

Thy  form  within  its  clasp, 

Than  live  and  lose  thee,  precious  one ! 
From  that  impassioned  grasp. 

O,  I could  pass  all  relics 
Left  by  the  pomps  of  old, 

To  gaze  on  this  rude  monument, 

Cast  in  affection’s  mould  ! 


TO  OUR  ELDEST  HEIR. 


63 


Love,  human  love  ! what  art  thou  ? 

Thy  print  upon  the  dust 
Outlives  the  cities  of  renown 
Wherein  the  mighty  trust ! 

Immortal,  O immortal 

Thou  art,  whose  earthly  glow 
Hath  given  these  ashes  holiness,  — 
It  must,  it  must  be  so  ! 


TO  OUR  ELDEST  HEIR. 

Deem  not  that  our  eldest  heir 
Wins  too  much  of  love  and  care  ; 
What  a parent’s  heart  can  spare, 
Who  can  measure  duly  ? 
Early  crops  were  never  found 
To  exhaust  that  fertile  ground, 
Still  with  riches ’t  will  abound, 
Ever  springing  newly. 


64  PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 

See  in  yonder  plot  of  flowers 
How  the  tallest  lily  towers, 

Catching  beams  and  kindly  showers 

Which  the  heavens  are  shedding. 
While  the  younger  plants  below,- 
Less  of  sun  and  breezes  know, 

Till  beyond  the  shade  they  grow, 

High  and  richly  spreading. 


She  that  latest  leaves  the  nest, 
Little  fledgling  much  carest, 

Is  not  therefore  loved  the  best, 

Though  the  most  protected  ; 
Nor  the  gadding,  daring  child, 

Oft  reproved  for  antics  wild, 

Of  our  tenderness  beguiled, 

Or  in  thought  neglected.  ~ 


’Gainst  the  islet’s  rocky  shore, 
Waves  are  beating  evermore, 

Yet  with  blooms  it ’s  scattered  o’er, 
Decked  in  softest  lustre  : 


ART  OF  BEING  HAPPY. 


65 


Nature  favors  it  no  less 
Than  the  guarded,  still  recess, 
Where  the  birds  for  shelter  press, 
And  the  harebells  cluster. 


ART  OF  BEING  HAPPY. 

Children  may  teach  us  one  blessed,  one  enviable 
art,  — the  art  of  being  easily  happy.  Kind  nature 
has  given  to  them  that  useful  power  of  accommoda- 
tion to  circumstances  which  compensates  for  so  many 
external  disadvantages  ; and  it  is  only  by  injudicious 
management  that  it  is  lost.  Give  him  but  a mod- 
erate portion  of  food  and  kindness,  and  the  peasant’s 
child  is  happier  than  the  duke’s  ; free  from  artificial 
wants,  unsated  by  indulgence,  all  nature  ministers  to 
his  pleasures  ; he  can  carve  out  felicity  from  a bit  of 
hazel  twig,  or  fish  for  it  successfully  in  a puddle. 


66 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


WILLIE  GOING  INTO  BREECHES. 

Joy  to  Willie,  he  this  day 
Has  his  long  coats  cast  away, 

And  (the  childish  season  gone) 

Puts  the  manly  breeches  op. 

Officer  on  gay  parade, 

Redcoat  in  his  first  cockade, 

Bridegroom  in  his  wedding  trim, 
Birthday  beau  surpassing  him, 

Never  did  with  conscious  gait 
Strut  about  in  half  the  state, 

Or  the  pride  (yet  free  from  sin) 

Of  my  little  manikin  ; 

Never  was  there  pride  or  bliss 
Half  so  rational  as  his. 

Sashes,  frocks,  to  those  that  need  ’em,  — 
Willie’s  limbs  have  got  their  freedom,  — 
He  can  run,  or  he  can  ride, 

And  do  twenty  things  beside, 

Which  his  petticoats  forbade  ; 

Is  he  not  a happy  lad  ? 


WILLIE  GOING  INTO  BREECHES. 


67 


Now  he  ’s  under  other  banners 
He  must  leave  his  former  manners ; 
Bid  adieu  to  female  games, 

And  forget  their  very  names. 

Puss  in  corners,  hide  and  seek, 

Sports  for  girls  and  punies  weak ! 
Baste  the  bear  he  now  may  play  at, 
Leap-frog,  football,  sport  away  at, 
Show  his  skill  and  strength  at  cricket, 
Mark  his  distance,  pitch  his  wicket, 
Run  about  in  winter’s  snow 
Till  his  cheeks  and  fingers  glow, 
Climb  a tree  or  scale  a wall, 

Without  any  fear  to  fall. 

If  he  get  a hurt  or  bruise, 

To  complain  he  must  refuse. 

Though  the  anguish  and  the  smart 
Go  unto  his  little  heart, 

He  must  have  his  courage  ready, 
Keep  his  voice  and  visage  steady, 
Brace  his  eyeballs  stiff  as  drum, 

That  a tear  may  never  come, 

And  his  grief  must  only  speak 
From  the  color  in  his  cheek. 


68 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


This  and  more  must  he  endure, 
Hero  he  in  miniature ! 

This  and  more  must  now  be  done, 
Now  the  breeches  are  put  on. 


DOMESTIC  INFLUENCE  OF  CHILDKEN. 

The  relations  of  parents  and  children  are  the 
holiest  in  our  lives ; and  there  are  no  pleasures,  or 
cares,  or  thoughts  connected  with  this  world,  which 
reminds  us  so  soon  of  another.  The  helpless  in- 
fancy of  children  sets  our  own  death  before  us,  when 
they  will  be  left  to  a world  to  which  we  would  not 
trust  ourselves ; and  the  thought  of  the  character 
they  may  take  in  after  life  brings  with  it  the  ques- 
tion, what  awaits  them  in  another.  Though  there 
is  a melancholy  in  this,  its  seriousness  has  a religious 
tendency.  And  the  responsibility  which  a man  has 
laid  himself  under  begets  a resoluteness  of  char- 
acter, a sense  that  this  world  was  not  made  to  idle  in, 
and  a feeling  of  dignity  that  he  is  acting  for  a great 


DOMESTIC  INFLUENCE  OF  CHILDREN.  69 
•*- 

end.  How  heavily  does  one  toil  who  labors  only  for 
himself ; and  how  is  he  cast  down  by  the  thought  of 
what  a worthless  creature  it  is  all  for  ! 

We  have  heard  of  the  sameness  of  domestic  life. 
He  must  have  a dull  head  and  little  heart  who  grows 
weary  of  it.  A man  who  moralizes  feelingly,  and 
has  a proneness  to  see  a beauty  and  fitness  in  all 
God’s  works,  may  find  daily  food  for  his  mind  even 
in  an  infant.  In  its  innocent  sleep,  when  it  seems 
like  some  blessed  thing  dropped  from  the  clouds,  with 
tints  so  delicate,  and  with  its  peaceful  breathing,  we 
can  hardly  think  of  it  as  of  mortal  mould,  it  looks  so 
like  a pure  spirit  made  visible  for  our  delight. 

“ Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,”  says 
Wordsworth.  And  who  of  us,  that  is  not  too  good 
to  be  conscious  of  his  own  vices,  who  has  not  felt 
rebuked  and  humbled  under  the  clear  and  open 
countenance  of  a child  ? Who  that  has  not  felt  his 
impurities  foul  upon  him  in  the  presence  of  a sinless 
child?  These  feelings  make  the  best  lesson  that 
can  be  taught  a man  ; and  tell  him  in  a way  which' 
all  else  he  has  read  or  heard  never  could,  how  paltry 
is  all  the  show  of  intellect  compared  with  a pure  and 
good  heart.  He  that  will  humble  himself  and  go 


70 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


to  a child  for  instruction,  will  come  away  a wiser 
man. 

If  children  can  make  us  wiser,  they  surely  can 
make  us  better.  There  is  no  one  more  to  be  envied 
than  a good-natured  man  watching  the  workings  of 
children’s  minds,  or  overlooking  their  play.  Their 
eagerness,  curious  about  everything,  making  out  by  a 
quick  imagination  what  they  see  but  a part  of,  — 
their  fanciful  combinations  and  magic  inventions, 
creating  out  of  ordinary  circumstances,  and  the  com- 
mon things  which  surround  them,  strange  events 
and  little  ideal  worlds,  and  these  all  working  in  mys- 
tery to  form  matured  thought,  is  study  enough  for 
the  most  acute  minds,  and  should  teach  us,  also,  not 
too  officiously  to  regulate  what  we  so  little  under- 
stand. 

The  still  musing  and  deep  abstraction  in  which 
children  sometimes  sit,  affect  us  as  a playful  mockery 
of  older  heads.  The  little  philosophers  have  no 
foolish  system,  with  all  its  pride  and  jargon,  confusing 
their  brains.  Theirs  is  the  natural  movement  of  the 
soul,  intense  with  new  life,  and  busy  after  truth, 
working  to  some  purpose,  though  without  a noise. 

When  children  are  lying  about  seemingly  idle  and 


DOMESTIC  INFLUENCE  OF  CHILDREN.  71 


dull,  we,  who  have  become  case-hardened  by  time 
and  satiety,  forget  that  they  are  all  sensation,  that 
their  outstretched  bodies  are  drinking  in  from  the 
common  sun  and  air,  that  every  sound  is  taken  note 
of  fly  the  ear,  that  every  floating  shadow  and  passing 
form  come  and  touch  at  the  sleepy  eye,  and  that  the 
little  circumstances  and  the  material  world  about 
them  make  their  best  school,  and  will  be  the  instruct- 
ors and  formers  of  their  characters  for  life.  And 
it  is  delightful  to  look  on  and  see  how  busily  the 
whole  acts,  with  its  countless  parts  fitted  to  each 
other,  and  moving  in  harmony.  There  are  none  of 
us  who  have  stolen  softly  behind  a child  when  la- 
boring in  a sunny  corner,  digging  a Lilliputian  well, 
or  fencing  in  a six-inch  barn-yard,  and  listened  to 
his  soliloquies,  and  his  dialogues  with  some  imag- 
inary being,  without  our  hearts  being  touched  by  it. 
Nor  have,  we  observed  the  flush  which  crossed  his 
face  when  finding  himself  betrayed,  without  seeing 
in  it  the  delicacy  and  propriety  of  the  after  man. 

A man  may  have  many  vices  upon  him,  and  have 
walked  long  in  a bad  course,  yet  if  he  has  a love 
of  children,  and  can  take  pleasure  in  their  talk  and 
play,  there  is  something  still  left  in  him  to  act  upon, 
4 


72 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


— something  which  can  love  simplicity  and  truth.  I 
have  seen  one  in  whom  some  lo^  vice  had  become 
a habit,  make  himself  the  plaything  of  a set  of  riot- 
ous children,  with  as  much  delight  in  his  countenance 
as  if  nothing  hut  goodness  had  ever  been  expressed 
in  it ; and  have  felt  as  much  of  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy toward  him,  as  I have  of  revolting  toward 
another,  who  has  gone  through  life  with  all  due 
propriety,  with  a cold  and  supercilious  bearing  to- 
wards children,  which  makes  them  shrinking  and  still. 
I have  known  one  like  the  latter  attempt,  with  un- 
couth condescension,  to  court  an  open-hearted  child, 
who  would  draw  back  with  an  instinctive  aversion ; 
and  I have  felt  as  if  there  were  a curse  upon  him. 
Better  to  be  driven  out  from  among  men,  than  to  be 
disliked  of  children. 


“ Is  there,  of  the  sounds  that  float 
Minglingly,  a single  note 
Half  so  sweet,  and  clear,  and  wild, 
\s  the  laughter  of  a child ! ” 


EARLY  LOST,  EARLY  SAVED. 


73 


EARLY  LOST,  EARLY  SAVED. 


“ Whom  the  gods  love,  die  young.’* 

"Within  her  downy  cradle  there  lay  a little  child, 

And  a group  of  hovering  angels  unseen  upon  her 
smiled. 

A strife  arose  among  them,  — a loving,  holy  strife,  — 

Which  should  shed  the  richest  blessing  over  the  new- 
born life. 

One  breathed  upon  her  features,  and  the  babe  in 
beauty  grew 

With  a cheek  like  morning’s  blushes,  and  an  eye  of 
azure  hue ; 

Till  every  one  who  saw  her  was  thankful  for  the 
sight 

Of  a face  so  sweet,  and  radiant  with  ever  fresh  de- 
light. 

Another  gave  her  accents,  and  a voice  as  musical 

As  a spring  bird’s  joyous  carol,  or  a rippling  stream- 
let’s fall ; 


74 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Till  all  who  heard  her  laughing  or  her  words  of 
childish  grace 

Loved  as  much  to  listen  to  her,  as  to  look  upon  her 
face. 

Another  brought  from  heaven  a clear  and  gentle 
mind, 

And  within  the  lovely  casket  the  precious  gem  en- 
shrined ; 

Till  all  who  knew  her  wondered  that  God  should  be 
so  good 

As  to  bless  with  such  a spirit  our  desert  world  and 
rude. 

Thus  did  she  grow  in  beauty,  in  melody  and  truth, 

The  budding  of  her  childhood  just  opening  into  youth, 

And  to  our  hearts  yet  dearer  every  moment  than 
before 

She  became,  though  we  thought  fondly  heart  could 
not  love  her  more. 

Then  outspake  another  angel,  nobler,  brighter  than 
the  rest, 

As  with  strong  arm,  but  tender,  he  caught  her  to  his 
breast : 


EARLY  LOST,  EARLY  SAVED. 


75 


“ Te  have  made  her  all  too  lovely  for  a child  of 
mortal  race, 

But  no  shade  of  human  sorrow  shall  darken  o’er  her 
face : 

“ Ye  have  tuned  to  gladness  only  the  accents  of  her 
tongue, 

And  no  wail  of  human  anguish  shall  from  her  lips  be 
wrung, 

Nor  shall  the  soul  that  shineth  so  purely  from  within 

Her  form  of  earth-born  frailty  ever  know  the  taint 
of  sin : 

“Lulled  in  my  faithful  bosom,  I will  bear  her  far 
away, 

Where  there  is  nor  sin,  nor  anguish,  nor  sorrow,  nor 
decay : 

And  mine,  a bo5n  more  glorious  than  all  the  gifts 
shall  be,  — 

Lo ! I crown  her  happy  spirit  with  immortality.” 

Then  on  his  heart  our  darling  yielded  up  her  gentle 
breath,  — 

For  the  stronger,  brighter  angel  who  loved  her  best 
was  Death. 


76 


PICTURES  AMD  FLOWERS. 


HEALTH  AND  PLAY  versus  TUBERCULAR 
VIRTUE. 

In  early  years,  while  the  child  “ feels  its  life  in 
every  limb,”  it  lives  in  the  body  and  for  the  body  to 
a very  great  extent.  It  ought  to  be  so.  There  have 
been  many  interesting  children  who  have  shown  a 
wonderful  indifference  to  the  things  of  earth  and  an 
extraordinary  development  of  the  spiritual  nature. 
There  is  a perfect  literature  of  their  biographies,  all 
alike  in  their  essentials  ; the  same  “ disinclination  to 
the  usual  amusements  of  childhood;”  the  same  re- 
markable sensibility ; the  same  docility ; the  same 
conscientiousness  ; in  short,  an  almost  uniform  char- 
acter, marked  by  beautiful  traits,  which  we  look  at 
with  a painful  admiration.  It  will  be  found  that 
most  of  these  children  are  the  subjects  of  some  con- 
stitutional unfitness  for  living,  the  most  frequent  of 
which  I need  not  mention.  They  are  like  the  beau- 
tiful, blushing,  half-grown  fruit  that  falls  before  its 
time  because  <its  core  is  gnawed  out.  They  have 
their  meaning, — they  do  not  live  in  vain,  — but 
they  are  windfalls.  I am  convinced  that  many 


HEALTH  AND  PLAY. 


77* 


healthy  children  are  injured  morally  by  being  forced 
to  read  too  much  about  these  little  meek  sufferers 
and  their  spiritual  exercises.  Here  is  a boy  that 
loves  to  run,  swim,  kick  football,  turn  somersets, 
make  faces,  whittle,  fish,  tear  his  clothes,  coast,  skate, 
fire  crackers,  blow  squash  “ footers,”  cut  his  name  on 
fences,  read  about  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Sinbad  the 
Sailor,  eat  the  widest  angled  slices  of  pie  and  untold 
cakes  and  candies,  crack  nuts  with  his  back  teeth  and 
bite  out  the  better  part  of  another  boy’s  apple  with 
his  front  ones,  turn  up  coppers,  “ stick  ” knives,  call 
names,  throw  stones,  knock  off  hats,  set  mousetraps, 
chalk  door-steps,  “ cut  behind ” anything  on  wheels 
or  runners,  whistle  through  his  teeth,  “ holler  ” fire ! 
on  slight  evidence,  run  after  soldiers,  patronize  an 
engine-company,  or,  in  his  own  words,  “blow  for 
tub  No.  11,”  or  whatever  it  may  be;  — isn’t  that  a 
pretty  nice  sort  of  a boy,  though  he  has  not  got  any- 
thing the  matter  with  him  that  takes  the  taste  of  this 
world  out?  Now,  when  you  put  into  such  a hot- 
blooded,  hard-fisted,  round-cheeked  little  rogue’s  hand 
a sad-looking  volume  or  pamphlet,  with  the  portrait 
of  a thin,  white-faced  child,  whose  life  is  really  as 
much  a training  for  death  as  the  last  month  of  a con- 


78 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


demned  criminars  existence,  what  does  he  find  in 
common  between  his  own  overflowing  and  exulting 
sense  of  vitality  and  the  experiences  of  the  doomed 
offspring  of  invalid  parents  ? The  time  comes  when 
we  have  learned  to  understand  the  music  of  sorrow, 
the  beauty  of  resigned  suffering,  the  holy  light  that 
plays  over  the  pillow  of  those  who  die  before  their 
time,  in  humble  hope  and  trust.  But  it  is  not  until 
he  has  worked  his  way  through  the  period  of  honesty 
hearty  animal  existence,  which  every  robust  child 
should  make  the  most  of,  — not  until  he  has  learned 
the  use  of  his  various  faculties,  which  is  his  first  duty, 
— that  a boy  of  courage  and  animal  vigor  is  in  a 
proper  state  to  read  these  tearful  records  of  prema- 
ture decay.  I have  no  doubt  that  disgust  is  implanted 
in  the  minds  of  many  healthy  children  by  early  sur- 
feits of  pathological  piety.  I do  verily  believe  that 
He  who  took  children  in  His  arms  and  blessed  them, 
loved  the  healthiest  and  most  playful  of  them  just  as 
well  as  those  who  were  richest  in  the  tuberculous 
virtues. 


BUTTERCUPS  AND  DAISIES. 


79 


BUTTERCUPS  AND  DAISIES. 

Buttercups  and  daisies,  — 

0,  the  pretty  flowers 
Coming  ere  the  spring-time 
To,  tell  of  sunny  hours. 

While  the  trees  are  leafless, 

While  the  fields  are  bare, 
Buttercups  and  daisies 
Spring  up  here  and  there. 

Little  hardy  flowers, 

Like  to  children  poor, 

Playing  in  their  sturdy  health 
By  their  mother’s  door  ; 

Purple  with  the  north- wind, 

Yet  alert  and  bold  ; 

Fearing  not  and  caring  not, 
Though  they  may  be  cold. 
What  to  them  is  weather  ! 

What  are  stormy  showers  ? 
Buttercups  and  daisies, 

Are  these  human  flowers  ? 

4 * 


80  PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 

He  who  gave  them  hardship, 

And  a life  of  care, 

Gave  them  likewise  hardy  strength, 
And  patient  hearts  to  bear. 


MY  CHILD. 

I cannot  make  him  dead ! 

His  fair,  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study-chair  ; 

Yet  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 
With  tears,  I turn  to  him, 

The  vision  vanishes,  — he  is  not  there  ! 

I walk  my  parlor  floor, 

And,  through  the  open  door, 

I hear  a footfall  on  the  chamber  stair  ; 

I ’m  stepping  towards  the  hall, 

To  give  the  boy  a call ; 

And  then  bethink  me,  — that  he  is  not  there  ! 


MY  CHILD. 


81 


I thread  the  crowded  street ; 

A satchelled  lad  I meet, 

With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair ; 
And,  as  he ’s  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 

Scarcely  believing  that  — he  is  not  there  ! 

I know  his  face  is  hid 
Under  the  coffin  lid  ; 

Closed  are  his  eyes  ; cold  is  his  forehead  ; 

My  hand  that  marble  felt ; 

O’er  it  in  prayer  I knelt ; 

Yet  my  heart  whispers  that  — he  is  not  there  ! 

I cannot  make  him  dead  ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed 
So  long  watched  over  by  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 
Seek  it  inquiringly ; 

Before  Ihe  thought  comes  that  — he  is  not  there ! 

When  at  the  cool,  gray  break 
Of  day,  from  sleep  I wake, 

With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 


82 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


My  soul  goes  up  with  joy 
To  him  who  gave  my  boy, 

Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that  — he  is  not  there 

When  at  the  day’s  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 

I ’m  with  his  mother  offering  up  our  prayer, 
Whate’er  I may  be  saying , 

I am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy’s  spirit,  though  he  is  not  there ! 

Not  there  ! Where,  then,  is  he  ? 

The  form  I used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear. 

The  grave  that  now  doth  press 
Upon  that  cast-off  dress 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked  — he  is  not  there  ! 

He  lives ! in  all  the  past 
He  lives  ! nor  to  the  last 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I despair. 

In  dreams  I see  him  now ; 

And  on  his  angel  brow 
I see  it  written,  — Thou  shalt  see  me  there  / 


JOY  IN  SORROW. 


83 


Yes,  we  all  live  to  God ! 

Father,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That  in  the  Spirit  land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 

T will  be  our  heaven  to  find  that  — he  is  there  ! 


JOY  IN  SORROW. 

Have  we  not  knelt  beside  his  bed, 

And  watched  our  first-born  blossom  die  ? 
Hoped,  till  the  shade  of  hope  had  fled, 
Then  wept  till  feeling’s  fount  was  dry  ? 
Was  it  not  sweet,  in  that  dark  hour, 

To  think,  ’mid  mutual  tears  and  sighs, 
Our  bud  had  left  its  earthly  bower, 

And  burst  to  bloom  in  Paradise  ? 

What  to  the  thought  that  soothed  that  woe 
Were  life’s  best  joys  — ten  years  ago  ? 


84 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


RESIGNATION. 

There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 
But  one  dead  lamb  is  there ! 

There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe’er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead ; 

The  heart  of  Rachel  for  her  children  crying 
Will  not  be  comforted ! 

Let  us  be  patient ! these  severe  afilictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise  ; 

But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 
Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  dim,  funereal  tapers, 

May  be  heaven’s  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  death ! what  seems  so  is  transition  ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a suburb  of  the  life  Elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 


RESIGNATION. 


85 


She  is  not  dead,  — the  child  of  our  affection,  — 
But  gone  unto  that  school, 

Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 
And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister’s  stillness  and  seclusion 
By  guardian  angels  led, 

Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin’s  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 
The  bond  which  nature  gives, 

Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 
May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

•Not  ns  a child  shall  we  again  behold  her ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 

In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a child ; 


86 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


But  a fair  maiden,  in  her  Father’s  mansion, 
Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 

And  beautiful,  with  all  the  soul’s  expansion, 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times,  impetuous  with  emotion 
And  anguish  long  suppressed, 

The  swelling  heart  heaves,  moaning  like  the  ocean 
That  cannot  be  at  rest ; 

We  will  be  patient ! and  assuage  the  feeling 
We  cannot  wholly  stay  ; 

By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing 
The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


YOUTH  ETERNAL. 


87 


YOUTH  ETERNAL. 

Thou  drt  young,  God  most  loving 
Gives  to  each  one,  in  his  turn, 

This  sweet  gift,  all  other  crowning, 
Youth  in  feeling  and  in  form. 

This  is  thy  enchanted  hour,  — 

Thou  art  young,  — and  bird  and  bee, 
Bursting  dawn  and  springing  flower 
Share  thy  secret  sympathy. 

Thou  art  young,  — and  impulse  free, 
Soaring  love,  and  fancies  bold, 
Whisper  one  command  to  thee,  — 
Never,  never  grow  thou  old ! 

Let  the  silken  lock  grow  gray, 

Let  the  rounded  form  decline,  — 

But  the  gloss  of  feeling  stay, 

But  the  glowing  soul  be  thine. 

Fearless  faith  and  generous  choice, — 
Purest  love  and  boundless  truth, 
Wear  these  roses  and  rejoice, 

In  eternity  of  youth  ! 


88 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS* 


CHILDHOOD. 

• • 

He  must  be  incorrigibly  unamiable,  who  is  not  a 
little  improved  by  becoming  a father.  The  selfish 
bachelor  may  shudder  when  he  thinks  of  the  con- 
sequences of  a family;  he  may  picture  to  himself 
littered  rooms  and  injured  furniture,  imagine  the 
noise  and  confusion,  the  expense  and  the  cares,  from 
which  he  is  luckily  free  ; hug  himself  in  his  solitude, 
and  pity  his  unfortunate  neighbor,  who  has  half  a 
dozen  squalling  children  to  torment  and  impoverish 
him.  The  unfortunate  neighbor,  however,  returns 
the  compliment  with  interest,  sighs  over  the  loneli- 
ness of  the  wealthy  bachelor,  and  can  never  see, 
without  feelings  of  regret,  rooms  where  no  stray 
plaything  tells  of  the  occasional  presence  of  a child  ; 
gardens  where  no  tiny  footmark  reminds  him  of  his 
treasures  at  home.  He  has  listened  to  his  heart,  and 
learned  from  it  a precious  secret ; he  knows  how  to 
convert  noise  into  harmony,  expense  into  self-gratifi- 
cation, and  trouble  into  amusement ; and  he  reaps 
in  one  day’s  intercourse  with  his  family  a harvest 
of  love  and  enjoyment  rich  enough  to  repay  years 


CHILDHOOD. 


89 


of  toil  and  care.  He  listens  eagerly  on  his  thresh- 
old for  the  boisterous  greeting  he  is  sure  to  receive, 
feels  refreshed  by  the  mere  pattering  sound  of  the 
darlings’  feet,  as  they  hurry  to  receive  his  kiss,  and 
cures,  by  a noisy  game  at  romps,  the  weariness  and 
headache  which  he  gained  in  his  intercourse  with 
men.  But  it  is  not  only  to  their  parents  and  near 
connections  that  children  are  interesting  and  delight- 
ful ; they  are  general  favorites,  and  their  caresses  are 
slighted  by  none  but  the  strange,  the  affected,  or  the 
morose.  Even  men  may  condescend  to  sport  with 
them  without  fear  of  contempt;  and  for  those  who 
like  to -shelter  themselves  under  authority,  and  can- 
not venture  to  be  wise  and  happy  their  own  way,  we 
have  plenty  of  splendid  examples,  ancient  and  mod- 
ern, living  and  dead,  to  adduce,  which  may  sanction 
a love  for  these  pigmy  playthings.  Statesmen  have 
romped  with  them,  orators  told  them  stories,  conquer- 
ors submitted  to  their  blows,  judges,  divines,  and  phi- 
losophers listened  to  their  prattle,  and  joined  in  their 
sports.  Spoiled  children  are,  however,  excepted 
from  this  partiality ; every  one  joins  in  visiting  the 
faults  of  others  upon  their  heads,  and  hating  these 
unfortunate  victims  of  their  parents’  folly.  They 


90 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


must  be  bribed  to  good  behavior,  like  many  of  their 
elders;  they  insist  upon  fingering  your  watch,  and 
spoiling  what  they  do  not  understand,  like  numbers 
of  the  patrons  of  literature  and  the  arts ; they  will 
sometimes  cry  for  the  moon,  as  absurdly  as  Alex- 
ander for  more  worlds ; and  when  they  are  angry, 
they  have  no  mercy  for  cups  and  saucers.  They 
are  as  unreasonable,  impatient,  selfish,  exacting,  and 
whimsical,  as  grown-up  men  and  women,  and  only 
want  the  varnish  of  politeness  and  mask  of  hypocrisy 
to  complete  the  likeness. 

Another  description  of  children,  deservedly  un- 
popular, is  the  over-educated  and  superexeellent, 
who  despise  dolls  and  drums,  and,  ready  only  for 
instruction,  have  no  wish  for  a holiday,  no  fancy  for 
a fairy  tale.  They  appear  to  have  a natural  taste 
for  pedantry  and  precision  ; their  wisdom  never  in- 
dulges in  a nap,  at  least  before  company  ; they  have 
learned  the  Pestalozzi  system,  and  weary  you  with 
questions ; they  require  you  to  prove  everything  you 
assert,  are  always  on  the  watch  to  detect  you  in  a 
verbal  inaccuracy,  or  a slight  mistake  in  a date. 
But,  notwithstanding  the  infinite  pains  taken  to  spoil 
nature’s  lovely  works,  there  is  a principle  of  re- 


CHILDHOOD. 


91 


sistanee,  which  allows  only  of  partial  success  ; and 
numbers  of  sweet  children  exist,  to  delight,  and 
soothe,  and  divert  us,  when  we  are  wearied  or 
fretted  by  grown-up  people,  and  to  justify  all  that 
has  been  said  or  written  of  the  charms  of  childhood. 
Perhaps  only  women,  their  natural  nurses  and  faith- 
ful protectresses,  can  thoroughly  appreciate  the  at- 
tractions of  the  first  few  months  of  human  existence. 
The  recumbent  position,  the  fragile  limbs,  the  lethar- 
gic tastes,  and  ungrateful  indifference  to  notice,  of  a 
very  young  infant,  render  it  uninteresting  to  most 
gentlemen,  except  its  father;  and  he  is  generally 
afraid  to  touch  it,  for  fear  of  breaking  its  neck.  But 
even  in  this  state,  mothers,  grandmothers,  aunts,  and 
nurses  assure  you  that  strong  indications  of  sense 
and  genius  may  be  discerned  in  the  little  animal; 
and  I have  known  a clatter  of  surprise  and  joy 
excited  through  a whole  family,  and  matter  afforded 
for  twenty  long  letters  and  innumerable  animated 
conversations,  by  some  marvellous  demonstration  of 
intellect  in  a creature  in  long  clothes,  who  could  not 
hold  its  head  straight. 

But  as  soon  as  the  baby  has  acquired  firmness 
and  liveliness  ; as  soon  as  it  smiles  at  a familiar  face, 
and  stares  at  a strange  one ; as  soon  as  it  employs 


92 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


its  hands  and  eyes  in  constant  expeditions  of  dis- 
covery, and  crows,  and  leaps,  from  the  excess  of 
animal  contentment,  — it  becomes  an  object  of  in- 
definable and  powerful  interest,  to  which  all  the 
sympathies  of  our  nature  attach  us,  — an  object  at 
once  of  curiosity  and  tenderness,  interesting  as  it  is 
in  its  helplessness  and  innocence,  doubly  interesting 
from  its  prospects  and  destiny ; interesting  to  a phi- 
losopher, doubly  interesting  to  a Christian. 


BABIE  BELL. 

THE  POEM  OF  A LITTLE  LIFE  THAT  WAS  BUT  THERE 
APRILS  LONG. 

“ If  she  had  lived,  I think  she  would  have  been 
Lilies  without,  and  roses  within.” 

Have  you  not  heard  the  poet  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 

The  gates  of  Heaven  were  left  ajar : 

With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 

She  saw  this  planet,  like  a star, 


BABIE  BELL. 


93 


Hung  in  the  purple  depths  of  even,  — 

Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 

O’er  which  the  white  winged  Angels  go, 
Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  Heaven. 

She  touched  a bridge  of  flowers,  — those  feet 
So  light,  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 

And  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet ! 

And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May. 

The  swallows  visit  beneath  the  eaves ; 

Like  sunlight  in  and  out  the  leaves, 

The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day  ; 

# The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o’er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 
Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine ! 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell ! 

O,  earth  was  full  of  singing  birds, 

And  happy  spring-tide  flowers, 

When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours ! 


94 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


O Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell ! 

How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day  ! 

What  woman  nature  filled  her  eyes, 

What  poetry  within  them  lay ! 

Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise  ! 

And  we  l^ved  Babie  more  and  more  ; 

Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 
Was  love  so  lovely  born ! 

We  felt  we  had  a link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen,  — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn  ! 

And  for  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 

For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 

(The  mother’s  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise !) 

For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 

We  said,  “Sweet  Christ!”  — our  hearts  bent 
down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 


BAB  IE  BELL. 


95 


And  now  the  orchards,  which  in  June 

Were  white  and  rosy  in  their  bloom  — 
Filling  the  crystal  veins  of  air 

With  gentle  pulses  of  perfume  — 
Were  rich  in  Autumn’s  mellow  prime, 

The  plums  were  globes  of  honeyed  wine,  — 
The  hived  sweets  of  summer-time ! 

The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell ; 

The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell. 
The  grapes  were  purpling  in  the  grange, 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a change 
In  little  Babie  Bell ! 

Her  tiny  form  more  perfect  grew, 

And  in  her  feature  we  could  trace, 

In  softened  curves,  her  mother’s  face ! 
Her  angel  nature  ripened  too. 

We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  .... 
Around  her  pale,  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a slender  ring  of  flame ! 

God’s  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 

Which  held  the  portals  of  her  speech  ; 
And  oft  she  said  a few  strange  words, 

Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 

5 


• « 


96 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


She  never  was  a child  to  us,  • 

We  never  held  her  being’s  key  ! 

We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things : 

She  was  Christ’s  self  in  purity ! 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees  ; 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 
His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell ! 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 

And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears, 

Like  sunshine  into  rain  ! 

We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 

“ O,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God  ! 

Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 

And  perfect  grow  through  grief.” 

Ah  ! how  we  loved  her  God,  can  tell ; 

Her  little  heart  was  cased  in  ours  ! 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Babie  Bell ! 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  fi;om  unseen  lands : 

And  what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell  ? 

She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 


EXTRACT  FROM  ELIA. 


97 


She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair ! 

We  parted  back  her  silken  hair ; 

We  laid  some  buds  upon  her  brow. 

White  buds,  like  scented  flakes  of  snow,  — 
Death’s  bride,  arrayed  in  flowers  ! 

And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours ! 


EXTRACT  FROM  “ELIA” 

Let  the  dreams  of  classic  idolatry  perish,  — ex- 
tinct be  the  fairies  and  fairy  trumpery  of  legendary 
fabling,  — in  the  heart  of  childhood  there  will  forever 
spring  up  a well  of  innocent  or  wholesome  supersti- 
tion, — the  seeds  of  exaggeration  will  be  busy  ther^ 
and  vital,  — from  every  day  forms  educing  the  un- 
known and  the  uncommon.  In  that  little  Goshen 
there  will  be  light,  when  the  grown-up  world  floun- 
ders about  in  the  darkness  of  sense  and  materiality. 
While  childhood,  and  while  dreams,  reducing  child- 
hood, shall  be  left,  — imagination  shall  not  have 
spread  her  holy  wings  totally  to  fly  the  earth. 


98 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


ON  A BRANCH  OF  FLOWERING  ACACIA. 

The  blossoms  hang  again  upon  the  tree, 

As  when  with  their  sweet  breath  they  greeted  me 
Against  my  casement,  on  that  sunny  morn, 

When  thou,  first  blossom  of  my  spring,  wast  born, 
And  as  I lay,  panting  from  the  fierce  strife, 

With  death  and  agony  that  won  thy  life, 

Their  sunny  clusters  hting  on  their  brown  bough, 
E’en  as  upon  my  breast,  my  May  Bud,  thou. 

They  seem  to  me  thy  sisters,  O my  child  ! 

And  now  the  air,  full  of  their  fragrance  mild 

Recalls  that  hour  ; a tenfold  agony 

Pulls  at  my  heartstrings  as  I think  of  thee. 

Was  it  in  vain ! O,  was  it  all  in  vain ! 

That  night  of  hope,  of  terror,  and  of  pain, 

When  from  the  shadowy  boundaries  of  death, 

I brought  thee  safely,  breathing  living  breath.  — 
Upon  my  heart,  — it  was  a holy  shrine, 

Full  of  God’s  praise,  — they  laid  thee,  treasure  mine ! 
And  from  its  tender  depths  the  blue  heavens  smiled, 
And  the  white  blossoms  bowed  to  thee,  my  child, 
And  solemn  joy  of  a new  life  was  spread, 

Like  a mysterious  halo,  round  that  bed. 


A CHILD  IS  BORN. 


99 


A CHILD  IS  BORN. 

A child  is  born,  — now  take  the  germ  and  make  it 
A bud  of  moral  beauty.  Let  the  dews 
Of  knowledge  and  the  light  of  virtue,  wake  it 
In  richest  fragrance  and  in  purest  hues  : 

When  passion’s  gust  and  sorrow’s  tempest  shake  it 
The  shelter  of  affection  ne’er  refuse, 

For  soon  the  gathering  hand  of  death  will  break  it, 
From  its  weak  stem  of  life  ; and  it  shall  lose 
All  power  to  charm  ; but  if  that  lovely  flower 
Hath  swelled  one  pleasure,  or  subdued  one  pain, 
0,  who  shall  say  that  it  hath  lived  in  vain, 

However  fugitive  its  breathing  hour  ? 

For  virtue  leaves  its  sweets  wherever  tasted, 

And  scattered  truth  is  never,  never  wasted. 


“ The  boy  carried  in  his  face  the  1 Open  Sesame  ’ to  every  door 
and  heart.” 


C.  Sedgwick. 


100 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


THOUGHTS  WHILE  SHE  ROCKS  THE 
CRADLE. 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ? 

Very  wonderful  thing  no  doubt, 

Unwritten  history  ! 

Unfathomable  mystery ! 

But  he  laughs  and  cries,  and  eats  and  drinks, 
And  chuckles  and  crows,  and  nods  and  winks, 
As  if  his  head  were  as  full  of  kinks, 

And  curious  riddles,  as  any  sphinx  ! 

Warped  by  colic,  and  wet  by  tears, 

Punctured  by  pins,  and  tortured  by  fears, 

Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years, 

And  he  ’ll  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go ! 

He  need  not  laugh,  for  he  ’ll  find  it  so ! 

Who  can  tell  what  the  baby  thinks  ? 

Who  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 
By  which  the  manikin  feels  his  way, 

Out  from  the  shores  of  the  great  unknown, 


THOUGHTS  WHILE  SHE  ROCKS  THE  CRADLE.  101 


Blind  and  wailing  and  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  day  ? 

Out  from  the  shores  of  the  unknown  sea 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony  ! 

Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  rolls, 

Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls,  — 

Barks  that  were  launched  on  the  other  side, 

And  slipped  from  heaven  on  an  ebbing  tide  ! 

And  what  does  he  think  of  his  mother’s  eyes  ? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother’s  hair  ? 

What  of  the  cradle  roof  that  flies 
Forward  and  backward  through  the  air  ? 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother’s  breast, 

Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white, 

Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight, 

Cup  of  his  joy,  and  couch  of  his  rest  ? 


What  does  he  think  when  her  quick  embrace 
Presses  his  hand  and  buries  his  face 

Deep  where  the  heart-throbs  sink  and  swell 
With  a tenderness  she  can  never  tell, 

Though  she  murmur  the  words  of  all  the  birds,  — 
Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  so  well ! 


102 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Now  he  thinks  he  ’ll  go  to  sleep ! 

I can  see  the  shadows  creep 
Over  his  eyes,  in  soft  eclipse, 
Over  his  brow,  and  over  his  lips, 
Out  in  his  little  finger  tips,  — 
Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes, 

Down  he  goes,  down  he  goes, 

See ! he  is  hushed  in  sweet  repose  ! 


“ The  smallest  planet  is  ‘nearest  the  sun.  Ye  stand  nearest  to 
God,  ye  little  ones.” 

“ Children  are  God’s  apostles ; day  by  day  sent  forth  to  preach 
of  love,  and  hope,  and  peace.” 

Lowell. 


THE  PLAYFUL  CHILDREN  JUST  LET  LOOSE 
FROM  SCHOOL. 

FROM  SIIENSTONE’S  “ SCHOOLMISTRESS.”. 


But  now  Dan  Phoebus  gains  the  middle  sky, 
And  liberty  unbars  her  prison  door, 


THE  PLAYFUL  SCHOOL-CHILDREN.  103 


And  like  a rushing  torrent  out  they  fly ; 

And  now  the  grassy  cirque  have  covered  o’er 
With  boisterous  revel,  rout,  and  wild  uproar ; 

A thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they  run. 
Heaven  shield  their  shortlived  pastimes,  I implore ; 
For  well  may  Freedom  erst  so  dearly  won 
Appear  to  childish  elf  more  gladsome  than  the  sun. 

Enjoy,  poor  imps  ! enjoy  your  sportive  trade, 

And  chase  gay  flies,  and  cull  the  fairest  flowers  ; 
For  when  my  bones  in  grass-green  sods  are  laid, 

O,  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 
In  knightly  castles  or  in  ladies’  bowers. 

O,  vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing  ! 

But  most  in  courts,  where  proud  ambition  towers ; 
Deluded  wight ! who  weens  fair  peace  can  spring 
Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kesar  or  of  king. 

See  in  each  sprite  some  various  bent  appear ! 

These  rudely  carol  most  incondite  lay  ; 

Those  sauntering  on  the  green,  with  jocund  leer 
Salute  the  stranger  passing  on  his  way ; 

Some  builden  fragile  tenements  of  clay  ; 

Some  to  the  standing  lake  their  courses  bend, 


104 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


With  pebbles  smooth  at  duck  and  drake  to  play ; 
Thilk  to  the  huckster’s  savory  cottage  lend, 

In  pastry  kings  and  queens  the  allotted  mite  to  spend. 

Here  as  each  season  yields  a different  store, 

Each  season’s  stores  in  order  ranged  been ; 

Apples  with  cabbage-net  y-covered  o’er, 

Galling  full  sore  the  unmoneyed  wight,  are  seen, 
See,  cherries  here,  ere  cherries  yet  abound, 

With  thread  so  white  in  tempting  posies  tied, 
Scattering,  like  blooming  maid,  their  glances  round, 
With  pampered  look  draw  little  eyes  aside ; 

And  must  be  bought,  though  penury  betide. 

O,  may  no  wight  e’er  penniless  come  there, 

Lest,  smit  with  ardent  love,  he  pines  with  hopeless 
care. 


MY  FIRST  PLAY. 

FRAGMENT  FROM  “ ELIA.” 

Trgs  boxes  at  that  time,  full  of  well-dressed  women 
of  quality,  projected  over  the  pit ; and  the  pilasters 


VERSICLES. 


105 


reaching  down  were  adorned  with  a glistening  sub 
stance  (I  know  not  what)  under  glass  (as  it  seemed), 
resembling  — a homely  fancy  — but  I judged  it  to  be 
sugar-candy,  — yet  to  my  raised  imagination,  divested 
of  its  homelier  qualities,  it  appeared  a glorified 
candy ! 

Charles  Lamb. 


VERSICLES. 

(for  fathers  and  mothers  only)  on  an  infant  daughter’s  first 

•WALKING. 

Ha  ! ambitious  little  elf ! 

Off  by  thy  adventurous  self? 

Fairly  off  ? O fair  betide  thee ! 

With  no  living  thing  beside  thee ; 

Not  a chair  to  creep  or  crawl  by ; 

Not  a finger-tip  to  catch  at ; 

Not  a sleeve  or  skirt  to  snatch  at ; 

Fairly  off  at  length  to  sea, 

F ull  twelve  inches  (can  it  be 
Really,  truly  ?)  from  the  lee 
Of  mamma’s  protecting  knee  ! 


106  . PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 

Fair  and  softly,  — soft  and  fairly,  — • 
Little  bark,  thou  sail’st  it  rarely, 

In  thy  new-born  power  and  pride 
O’er  the  carpet’s  level  tide, 

♦ Lurching,  though,  from  side  to  side, 
Ever  and  anon,  and  heeling 
Like  a tipsy  cherub  reeling, 

(If  e’en  cherubs,  saucy  gypsy  ! 

Smile  like  thee,  or  e’er  get  tipsy  !) 
Even  as  though  yon  dancing  mote, 

In  the  sunny  air  afloat, 

Or  the  merest  breath  that  met  thee, 
Might  suffice  to  overset  thee ! 

Helm  a weather ! steady,  steady ! 
Nay,  the  danger ’s  past  already ; 
Thou,  with  gentle  course,  untroubled, 
Table- Cape  full  well  hast  doubled, 
Sofa  Point  hast  shot  ahead, 

Safe  by  Footstool-Island  sped, 

And  art  steering,  well  and  truly, 

On  for  Closet  Harbor  duly  ! 

Anchor  now,  or  turn  in  time, 

Ere  within  the  torrid  clime 


YERSICLES. 


107 


Which  the  topic  fender  bounds, 

And  with  brazen  zone  surrounds  ; 

Turn  thee,  weary  little  vessel, 

Nor  with  further  perils  wrestle  ; 

Turn  thee  to  refit  a while 
In  the  sweetly  sheltering  smile 
Of  thine  own  Maternal  Isle, 

In  the  haven  of  dear  rest 
Proffered  by  the  doating  breast, 

And  the  ever-ready  knee 
Of  a mother  true  to  thee, 

As  the  best  of  mothers  be ! 

Nay ! adventurous  little  ship  ! 

If  thine  anchor ’s  still  a-trip, 

And,  instead  of  port,  you  choose 
Such  another  toilsome  cruise, 
Wheresoe’er  the  whim  may  lead  thee, 
On,  my  treasure ! and  God  speed  thee ! 
Hackneyed  as,  perchance,  they  be, 
Solemn  words  as  these  to  me, 

Nor  from  an  irreverent  lip 
Heedlessly  or  lightly  slip  : 

Even  He  whose  name  I take 


108 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Thus,  my  dear  one,  for  thy  sake, 
In  this  seeming  idle  strain, 
Knows  I take  it  not  “ in  vain.” 
But  as  in  a parent’s  prayer 
Unto  Him  to  bless  and  spare ! 


EXTRACT  FROM  ODE  TO  BIMORTALITY. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 

A six  years’  darling  of  a pigmy  size ! 

See,  where  ’mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother’s  kisses, 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  father’s  eyes  ! 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ; 

A wedding  or  a festival, 

A mourning  or  a funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song : 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 


ACCOUNT  OF  FAMILY  SKIRMISHES.  109 


But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 

Filling  from  time  to  time  his  humorous  stage 
With  all  the  persons  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 
As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 


SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  SKIRMISHES  IN 
A SMALL  FAMILY, 

TOGETHER  WITH  A SKETCH  OF  MOLOCH’S  BABYHOOD. 

A small  man  sat  in  a small  parlor,  and  in  com- 
pany with  him  almost  any  number  of  small  children 
you  may  please  to  name.  Of  these  small  fry,  two 
had,  by  some  strong  machinery,  been  got  into  bed  in 
a corner,  where  they  might  have  reposed  snugly 
enough  in  the  sleep  of  innocence,  but  for  a constitu- 
tional propensity  to  keep  awake,  and  also  to  scuffle 
in  and  out  of  bed.  The  immediate  occasion  of  these 


110 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


predatory  dashes  at  the  waking  world  was  the  con- 
struction of  an  oyster-shell  wall  in  a corner  by  two 
youths  of  tender  age ; on  which  fortification  the  two 
in  bed  made  harassing  descents  (like  those  accursed 
Piets  and  Scots  who  beleaguer  the  early  historical 
studies  of  most  young  Britons),  and  then  withdrew 
to  their  own  territory. 

In  addition  to  the  stir  attendant  on  these  inroads, 
and  the  retorts  of  the  invaded,  who  pursued  hotly, 
and  made  lunges  at  the  bedclothes  under  which  the 
marauders  took  refuge,  another  little  boy,  in  another 
little  bed,  contributed  his  mite  of  confusion  to  the 
family  stock,  by  casting  his  boots  upon  the  waters ; 
in  other  words,  by  launching  these  and  other  small 
objects,  inoffensive  in  themselves,  though  of  hard 
substance  considered  as  missiles,  at  the  disturbers 
of  his  repose,  who  were  not  slow  to  return  these 
compliments. 

Besides  which,  another  little  boy  — the  biggest 
there,  but  still  little  — was  tottering  to  and  fro,  bent 
on  one  side,  and  considerably  affected  in  his  knees 
by  the  Weight  of  a large  baby,  which  he  was  sup- 
posed, by  a fiction  which  obtains  sometimes  in  san- 
guine families,  to  be  hushing  to  sleep.  But  oh  ! the 


ACCOUNT  OF  FAMILY  SKIRMISHES. 


Ill 


inexhaustible  regions  of  contemplation  and  watch- 
fulness into  which  this  baby’s  eyes  were  then  only 
beginning  to  compose  themselves  to  stare,  over  his 
unconscious  shoulder  ! It  was  a very  Moloch  of  a 
baby,  on  whose  insatiate  altar  the  whole  existence 
of  this  particular  young  brother  was  offered  up  a 
daily  sacrifice.  Its  personality  may  be  said  to  have 
consisted  in  its  never  being  quiet,  in  any  one  place, 
for  five  consecutive  minutes,  and  never  going  to  sleep 
when  required.  The  “ baby  ” was  as  well  known  in 
the  neighborhood  as  the  postman.  It  roved  from 
doorstep  to  doorstep,  in  the  arms  of  little  Johnny,  a 
little  too  late  for  everything  attractive,  from  Monday 
morning  till  Saturday  night.  Wherever  children 
were  playing,  there  was  little  Moloch  making  Johnny 
fag  and  toil.  Wherever  Johnny  desired  to  stay,  little 
Moloch  became  fractious,  and  would  not  remain. 
Whenever  Johnny  wanted  to  go  out,  Moloch  was 
asleep,  and  must  be  watched.  Whenever  Johnny 
wanted  to  stay  at  home,  Moloch  was  awake,  and 
must  be  taken  out. 


112 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


THE  LOST  HEIR. 

One  day  as  I was  going  by 

That  part  of  Holborn  christened  High, 

I heard  a loud  and  sudden  cry 
That  chilled  my  very  blood  ; 

And  lo ! from  out  a dirty  alley 
Where  pigs  and  Irish  wont  to  rally 
I saw  a crazy  woman  sally, 

Bedaubed  with  grease  and  mud. 

She  turned  her  east,  she  turned  her  west, 
Staring  like  Pythoness  possessed, 

With  streaming  hair  and  heaving  breast, 
As  one  stark  mad  with  grief. 

This  way  and  that  she  wildly  ran, 
Jostling  with  woman  and  with  man. 

At  last  her  frenzy  seemed  to  reach 
A point  just  capable  of  speech, 

And  with  a tone  almost  a screech, 

As  wild  as  ocean  birds, 

Or  female  Ranter  moved  to  preach, 

She  gave  her  “ sorrow  words.” 


THE  LOST  HEIR. 


113 


0 Lord ! 0 dear,  my  heart  will  break,  I shall  go 

stick,  stark,  staring  wild ! 

Has  ever  a one  seen  anything  about  the  streets  like 
a crying,  lost-looking  child  ? 

Lord,  help  me,  I don’t  know  where  to  look,  or  to  run, 
if  I only  knew  which  way,  — 

A child  as  is  lost  about  London  streets,  and  especially 
Seven  Dials,  is  a needle  in  a bottle  of  hay,  — 
The  last  time  as  ever  I see  him,  poor  thing!  was 
with  my  own  blessed  motherly  eyes, 

Sitting  as  good  as  gold  in  the  gutter,  a playing  at 
making  little  dirt-pies. 

1 wonder  he  left  the  court  where  he  was  better  off 

than  all  the  other  young  boys, 

With  two  bricks,  an  old  shoe,  nine  oyster-shells,  and 
a dead  kitten,  by  way  of  toys. 

O Billy,  you  ’re  bursting  my  heart  in  two,  and  my 
life  won’t  be  of  no  more  vally, 

If  I ’m  to  see  other  folks’  darlings,  and  none  of  mine, 
playing  like  angels  in  our  alley. 

And  what  shall  I do  but  cry  out  my  eyes,  when  I 
looks  at  the  old  three-legged  chair 
As  Billy  used  to  make  coach  and  horses  of,  and  there 
ain’t  no  Billy  there ! 


114 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


For  though  I say  it  as  ought  n’t,  yet  I will  say,  you 
may  search  for  miles  and  mileses, 

And  not  find  one  better  brought  up,  or  more  pretty 
behaved,  from  one  end  to  t’  other  of  St.  Giles’s. 

And  if  I called  him  a beauty,  it ’s  no  lie,  but  only  as 
a mother  ought  to  speak  ; 

You  never  set  eyes  on  a more  handsomer  face,  only 
it  has  n’t  been  washed  for  a week ; 

As  for  hair,  though  it ’s  red,  it ’s  the  most  nicest  hair 
when  I ’ve  time  to  just  show  it  the  comb  ; 

I ’ll  owe  ’em  five  pounds,  and  a blessing  besides,  as 
will  only  bring  him  safe  and  sound  home. 

He ’s  blue  eyes,  and  not  to  be  called  a squint,  though 
a little  cast  he ’s  certainly  got ; 

And  his  nose  is  still  a good  one,  though  the  bridge  is 
broke  by  his  falling  on  a pewter  pint  pot ; 

He ’s  got  the  most  elegant  wide  mouth  in  the  world, 
and  very  large  teeth  for  his  age  ; 

And  quite  as  fit  as  Mrs.  Murdochson’s  child  to  play 
Cupid  on  the  Drury  Lane  stage. 

And  then  he ’s  got  such  dear  winning  ways  — But 
O I never,  never  shall  see  him  no  more ! 

O dear ! to  think  of  losing  him  just  after  nussing 
him  back  from  death’s  door  ! 


THE  LOST  HEIR. 


115 


Billy,  — where  are  you,  Billy,  I say  ? Come,  Billy, 
come  home,  to  your  best  of  mothers  ! 

I ’m  scared  when  I think  of  them  Cabroleys,  they 
drive  so,  they ’d  run  over  their  own  sisters  and 
brothers. 

O,  I ’d  give  the  whole  wide  world,  if  the  world  was 
mine,  to  clap  my  two  longin’  eyes  on  his  face, 

For  he ’s  my  darlin’  of  darlin’s,  and  if  he  don’t  soon 
come  back,  you  ’ll  see  me  drop  stone  dead  on 
the  place. 

I only  wish  I ’d  got  him  safe  in  these  two  motherly 
arms,  and  would  n’t  I hug  him  and  kiss  him  ? 

Lord ! I never  knew  what  a precious  he  was,  — but 
a child  don’t  feel  like  a child  till  you  miss  him. 

Why  there  he  is ! Punch-and-Judy  hunting,  the 
young  wretch,  it ’s  that  Billy  as  sartin  as  sin  ! 

But  let  me  get  him  home,  with  a good  grip  of  his 
hair,  and  I ’m  blest  if  he  shall  have  a whole 
bone  in  his  skin! 


116 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


WISHES. 

BY  WILLIAM  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY.  1557. 

How  no  age  is  content  with  his  owne  estate,  and  how  the  ago 
of  children  is  the  happiest,  if  they  had  skill  to  understand  it. 

Laid  in  my  quiet  bed,  in  study  as  I were, 

I saw  within  my  troubled  head  a heap  of  thoughts 
appear ; 

And  every  thought  did  shew  so  lyvely  in  myne  eyes, 
That  now  I sighed,  and  then  I smilde,  as  cause  of 
thoughts  did  ryse. 

I sawe  the  little  boy,  in  thought  how  oft  that  he 
Did  wish  of  God,  to  scape  the  rod,  a tall  yonge  man 
to  be  ; 

The  yonge  man  eake  that  feles  his  bones  with  pains 
opprest, 

How  he  would  be  a riche  old  man,  to  live  and  lye  at 
rest ; 

The  riche  old  man,  that  sees  his  end  draw  on  so  sore, 
How  he  would  be  a boy  againe,  to  live  so  much  the 


more. 


MY  LITTLE  COUSIN’S  FIRST  BONNET.  117 


Whereat  full  oft  I smylde,  to  see  how  all  those 
three, 

From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy,  would  chop  and 
change  degree. 

Whereat  I sighed  again,  and  sayde,  Farewell  my 
wonted  toye ; 

Trusse  up  thy  packe,  and  trudge  from  me  to  every 
little  boy, 

And  tell  them  thus  from  me,  theyr  time  most 
happy  is, 

If  to  theyr  time  they  reason  had,  to  know  the  truth 
of  this. 


TO  MY  LITTLE  COUSIN  WITH  HER  FIRST 
BONNET. 

Fairies  ! guard  the  baby’s  bonnet,  — 

Set  a special  watch  upon  it ; 

Elfin  people  ! to  your  care 
I commit  it,  fresh  and  fair ; 

Neat  as  neatness,  white  as  snow,  — - 
See  ye  make  it  over  so. 


6 


118 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Watch  and  ward  set  all  about, 

Some  within  and  some  without ; 
Over  it  with  dainty  hand, 

One  her  kirtle  green  expand ; 

One  take  post  at  every  ring ; 

One  at  each  unwrinkled  string  ; 

Two  or  three  about  the  bow 
Vigilant  concern  bestow ; 

A score,  at  least,  on  either  side, 
’Gainst  evil  accident  provide,  — 
(Jolt  or  jar  or  overlay ;) 

And  so  the  precious  charge  convey 
Through  all  the  dangers  of  the  way. 
But  when  those  are  battled  through, 
Fairies,  more  remains  to  do; 

Ye  must  gift,  before  ye  go, 

The  bonnet,  and  the  babe  also,  — 
Gift  it  to  protect  her  well, 

Fays ! from  all  malignant  spell, 
Charms  and  seasons  to  defy, 
Blighting  winds  and  evil  eye ; 

And  the  bonny  babe ! on  her 
All  your  choicest  gifts  confer ; — 


MY  LITTLE  COUSIN’S  FIRST  BONNET. 

Just  as  much  of  wit  and  sense 
As  may  be  hers  without  pretence.  — 
Just  as  much  of  grace  and  beauty, 

As  shall  not  interfere  with  duty,  — 

Just  as  much  of  spriglitliness, 

As  may  companion  gentleness,  — 

Just  as  much  of  firmness,  too, 

As  with  self-will  hath  naught  to  do,  — 
Just  as  much  light-hearted  cheer, 

As  may  be  melted  to  a tear, 

By  a word,  — a tone,  — a look,  — 
Pity’s  touch,  — or  Love’s  rebuke,  — 

As  much  of  frankness,  sweetly  free, 

As  may  consort  with  modesty,  — 

As  much  of  feeling  as  will  bear 
Of  after  life  the  wear  and  tear,  — 

As  much  of  life — But,  Fairies,  there 
Ye  vanish  into  thinnest  air ; 

And  with  ye  parts  the  playful  vein 
That  loved  a light  and  trivial  strain. 
Befits  me  better,  babe,  for  thee 
T’  invoke  Almighty  agency,  — 
Almighty  love,  Almighty  power, 

To  nurture  up  the  human  flower ; 


120 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


To  cherish  it  with  heavenly  dew, 
Sustain  with  earthly  blessings  too ; 
And  when  the  ripe  full  time  shall  be, 
Engraft  it  on  eternity  ! 


DEATHS  OF  LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

Those  who  have  lost  an  infant  are  never,  as  it 
were,  without  an  infant  child.  They  are  the  only 
persons  who,  in  one  sense,  retain  it  always,  and  fur- 
nish their  neighbors  with  the  same  idea.  The  other 
children  grow  up  to  manhood  and  womanhood,  and 
suffer  all  the  changes  of  mortality.  This  one  alone 
is  rendered  an  immortal  child.  Death  has  arrested 
it  with  his  kindly  harshness,  and  blessed  it  into  an 
eternal  image  of  youth  and  innocence.  Of  such  as 
these  are  the  pleasantest  shapes  that  visit  our  fancies 
and  hopes.  They  are  the  ever-smiling  emblems  of 
joy;  the  prettiest  pages  that  wait  on  imagination. 
Lastly,  “ Of  these  are  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.” 

Indicator. 


THE  SICKLY  BABE. 


121 


“ I sighed,”  says  old  Captain  Dalton,  “ when  I 
envied  you  the  two  bonny  children ; but  I sigh  not 
now  to  call  either  the  monk  or  the  soldier  mine 
own.” 

Monastery. 


THE  SICKLY  BABE. 


Mine  infant  was  a poor,  weak  thing : 

No  strength  his  little  arms  to  fling ; 

His  cheek  was  pale  and  very  thin, 

And  none  a smile  from  him  could  win, 

Save  I,  — his  mother  ! O my  child  ! 

How  could  they  think  my  love  so  wild  ? 

I never  said  it,  — but  I knew., 

From  the  first  breath  my  baby  drew. 

That  I must  soon  my  joy  resign,  — 

That  he  was  God’s,  — not  mine,  not  mine ! 
But  think  you  that  I loved  him  less 
Because  I saw  his  feebleness  ? 


122 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


To  others,  senseless  seemed  his  eye, 

They  looked,  and  only  thought,  “ He  ’ll 
die ! ” 

To  me,  that  little  suffering  frame 
Came  freighted  with  a spirit’s  claim,  — 
Came  full  of  blessing  to  my  heart, 
Brought  thoughts  I could  to  none  impart. 

The  pale,  pale  bud  bloomed  not  on  earth ; 
Blighted  and  stricken  from  his  birth, 

A few  short  months  upon  my  breast 
He  lay,  then  smiled  and  went  to  rest ; 
And  all  forgot  him,  born  to  die, 

All,  all  forgot,  save  God  and  I. 


I REMEMBER,  I REMEMBER. 

I remember,  I remember, 

The  house  where  I was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn  : 


I REMEMBER,  I REMEMBER. 


123 


He  never  came  a wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a day ; 
But  now,  I often  wish  that  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away. 


I remember,  I remember, 

The  roses,  — red  and  white ; 
The  violets  and  the  lily-cups, 
Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 
The  tree  is  living  yet ! 


I remember,  I remember, 

Where  I was  used  to  swing ; 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 
To  swallows  on  the  wing: 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 
The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 


124 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


I remember,  I remember, 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high  ; 

I used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky ! 

It  was  a childish  ignorance, 

But  now ’t  is  little  joy 
To  know  I ’m  farther  off  from  heaven 
Than  when  I was  a boy. 


“ It ’s  hard  we  canna  just  remain  young  a’  the  days  we  havo 
to  bide  below,  there ’s  no  sae  mony  o’  them.  I never  could  find 
the  use  of  growing  auld.” 

“ The  days  of  our  youth ! had  we  a grip  o’  them  back  again, 
how  different  like  wad  we  use  them  ; at  least,  so  we  think,  but 
wha  can  hinder  the  wind  to  blaw?  youth  winna  be  guided.” 


THE  THREE  SONS. 


125 


THE  THREE  SONS. 

I have  a son,  a little  son,  a boy  just  five  years  old, 

With  eyes  of  thoughtful  earnestness,  and  mind  of 
, gentle  mould. 

They  tell  me  that  unusual  grace  in  all  his  ways 
appears,  — 

That  my  child  is  grave  and  wise  of  heart  beyond  his 
childish  years. 

I cannot  say  how  this  may  be : I know  his  face  is  fair ; 

And  yet  his  chiefest  comeliness  is  his  sweet  and 
serious  air. 

I know  his  heart  is  kind  and  fond : I know  he  loveth 
me ; 

But  loveth  yet  his  mother  more,  with  grateful  fer- 
vency. 

But  that  which  others  most  admire,  is  the  thought 
which  fills  his  mind,  — 

The  food  for  grave,  inquiring  speech^  he  everywhere 
doth  find. 

Strange  questions  doth  he  ask  of  me,  when  we  to- 
gether walk ; 

He  scarcely  thinks  as  children  think,  or  talks  as 
children  talk. 

6 * 


126 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Nor  cares  he  much  for  childish  sports,  dotes  not  on 
bat  or  ball, 

But  looks  on  manhood’s  ways  and  works,  and  aptly 
mimics  all. 

His  little  heart  is  busy  still,  and  oftentimes  perplexed 

With  thoughts  about  this  world  of  ours,  and  thoughts 
about  the  next. 

He  kneels  at  his  dear  mother’s  knee,  she  teacheth 
him  to  pray, 

And  strange  and  sweet  and  solemn  then  are  the 
words  which  he  will  say. 

0,  should  my  gentle  child  be  spared  to  manhood’s 
years,  like  me, 

A holier  and  a wiser  man  I trust  that  he  will  be  : 

And  when  I look  into  his  eyes,  and  stroke  his 
thoughtful  brow, 

I dare  not  think  what  I should  feel,  were  I to  lose 
him  now. 

I have  a son,  a second  son,  a simple  child  of  three ; 

I ’ll  not  declare  how  bright  and  fair  his  little  features  be, 

How  silver  sweet  those  tones  of  his  when  he  prattles 
on  my  knee. 

I do  not  think  his  light-blue  eye  is,  like  his  brother’s, 
keen, 


THE  THREE  SONS. 


127 


Nor  his  brow  so  full  of  childish  thought  as  his  hath 
ever  been ; 

But  his  little  heart ’s  a fountain  pure  of  kind  and 
tender  feeling, 

And  his  every  look  ’&  a gleam  of  light,  rich  depths  of 
love  revealing. 

When  he  walks  with  me,  the  country  folk  who  pass 
us  in  the  street, 

Will  shout  for  joy,  and  bless  my  boy,  he  looks  so 
mild  and  sweet. 

A playfellow  is  he  to  all,  and  yet,  with  cheerful  tone, 

Will  sing  his  little  song  of  love,  when  left  to  sport 
alone, 

His  presence  is  like  sunshine  sent  to  gladden  home 
and  hearth, 

To  comfort  us  in  all  our  griefs,  and  sweeten  all  our 
mirth. 

Should  he  grow  up  to  riper  years,  God  grant  his 
heart  may  prove 

As  sweet  a home  for  heavenly  grace  as  now  for 
earthly  love : 

And  if,  beside  his  grave,  the  tears  our  aching  eyes 
must  dim, 

God  comfort  us  for  all  the  love  which  we  shall  lose 


in  him. 


128 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


I have  a son,  a third  sweet  son ; his  age  I cannot 
tell, 

For  they  reckon  not  by  years  and  months  where  he 
is  gone  to  dwell. 

To  us,  for  fourteen  anxious  months,  his  infant  smiles 
were  given, 

And  then  he  bade  farewell  to  earth,  and  went  to  live 
in  heaven. 

I cannot  tell  what  form  is  his,  what  looks  he  weareth 
now, 

Nor  guess  how  bright  a glory  crowns  his  shining 
seraph  brow. 

The  thoughts  that  fill  his  sinless  soul,  the  bliss  which 
he  doth  feel, 

Are  numbered  with  the  secret  things  which  God 
will  not  reveal. 

But  I know  (for  God  hath  told  me  this)  that  he  is 
now  at  rest, 

Where  other  blessed  infants  be,  on  their  Saviour’s 
loving  breast. 

I know  his  spirit  feels  no  more  this  weary  load  of 
flesh, 

But  his  sleep  is  blessed  with  endless  dreams  of  joy 
forever  fresh. 


THE  THREE  SONS. 


129 


I know  the.  angels  fold  him  close  beneath  their  glit- 
tering wings, 

And  soothe  him  with  a gong  that  breathes  of  heaven’s 
divinest  things. 

I know  that  we  shall  meet  our  babe,  (his  mother 
dear  and  I,) 

Where  God  for  aye  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from 
every  eye. 

Whate’er  befalls  his  brethren  twain,  his  bliss  can 
never  cease ; 

Their  lot  may  here  be  grief  and  fear,  but  his  is 
certain  peace. 

It  may  be  that  the  tempter’s  wiles  their  souls  from 
bliss  may  sever, 

But  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he  must  be  ours 
forever. 

When  we  think  of  what  our  darling  is,  and  what  we 
still  must  be,  t— 

When  we  muse  on  that  world’s  perfect  bliss,  and 
this  world’s  misery, — 

When  we  groan  beneath  this  load  of  sin,  and  feel 
this  grief  and  pain,  — 

O,  we ’d  rather  lose  our  other  two,  than  have  him 
here  again ! 


130 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

Candid  and  curious,  how  they  seek 
All  truth  to  know  and  scan ; 

And,  ere  the  budding  mind  can  speak, 
Begin  to  study  man  ! 

Confiding  sweetness  colors  all  they  say, 
And  angels  listen  when  they  try  to  pray. 


CHILDHOOD  DEPARTED. 

And  yet,  0 where  art  thou, 
Childhood  ! with  sunny  brow 
And  floating  hair,  — 

Where  art  thou  hiding  now  ? 

I have  sought  thee  everywhere,  — 
All  among  the  shrubs  and  flowers 
Of  those  garden-walks  of  ours ; — 
Thou  art  not  there  ! 

When  the  shadow  of  Night’s  wings 


CHILDHOOD  DEPARTED. 


131 


Hath  darkened  all  the  earth, 

I listen  for  thy  gambolings 
Beside  the  cheerful  hearth  ; — 

Thou  art  not  there  ! 

I listen  to  the  far-off  bell, 

I murmur  o’er  the  little  songs 
Which  thou  did’st  love  so  well ; 

Pleasant  memories  come  in  throngs, 

And  mine  eyes  are  blurred  with  tears, 

But  no  glimpse  of  thee  appears : 

O,  childish  hopes  and  childish  fancies, 
Whither  have  ye  fled  away  ? 

I long  for  you  in  mournful  trances, 

I long  for  you  by  night  and  day  ; 
Beautiful  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 
Might  I but  win  you  back  once  more, 
Might  ye  about  my  being  twine 
And  cluster  as  ye  did  of  yore  ! — 

Hath  the  sun  forgot  its  brightness, 

Have  the  stars  forgot  to  shine, 

That  they  bring  not  their  wonted  lightness 
To  this  weary  heart  of  mine  ? 

’T  is  not  the  sun  that  shone  on  thee, 
Happy  childhood ! long  ago,  — 


132  PICTURES  AND*  FLOWERS. 

Not  the  same  stars  silently 
Looking  on  the  same  bright  snow,  — 
Not  the  same  that  youth  and  I 
Together  watched  in  days  gone  by  ! 
No,  not  .the  same,  alas  for  me ! 

O for  the  hopes  and  for  the  feelings, 
Childhood,  that  I shared  with  thee  ! 


“ Earth’s  hopes  will  wither  like  earth’s  flowers, 
Joys  born  with  spring  die  with  spring’s  hours, 
Change  o’er  the  youthful  frame  must  roll, 

But  love  and  life  are  of  the  soul ! ” 


THE  DESERTED  GARDEN. 

I mind  me  in  the  days  departed, 

How  often  underneath  the  sun, 
With  childish  bounds  I used  to  run 
To  a garden  long  deserted. 


THE  DESERTED  GARDEN. 


133 


The  trees  were  interwoven  wild, 

And  spread  their  boughs  enough  about 
To  keep  both  sheep  and  shepherd  out, 
But  not  a happy  child. 

Adventurous  joy  it  was  for  me  ! 

I crept  beneath  the  boughs,  and  found 
A circle  smooth  of  mossy  ground 
Beneath  a poplar-tree. 

Old  garden  rose-trees  hedged  it  in,  — 
Bedropt  with  roses  waxen  white, 

Well  satisfied  with  dew  and  light, 

And  careless  to  be  seen. 

And  gladdest  hours  for  me  did  glide 
In  silence  at  the  rose-tree  wall : 

A thrush  made  gladness  musical 
Upon  the  other  side. 

My  childhood  from  my  life  is  parted ; 

My  footsteps  from  the  moss  which  drew 
Its  fairy  circle  round  : anew 
The  garden  is  deserted  ! 


1U 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Another  thrush  may  there  rehearse 
The  madrigals  which  sweetest  are,  — 
No  more  for  me  ! — myself  afar 
Do  sing  a sadder  verse ! — 

Ah  me ! ah  me ! when  erst  I lay 

In  that  child’s  nest  so  greenly  wrought, 
I laughed  to  myself  and  thought 
The  time  will  pass  away  ! 

I laughed  still,  and  did  not  fear 
But  that,  whene’er  was  past  away 
The  childish  time,  some  happier  play 
My  womanhood  would  cheer. 

I knew  the  time  would  pass  away,  — 
And  yet  beside  the  rose-tree  wall, 

Dear  God  ! — how  seldom,  if  at  all, 

I looked  up  to  pray  ! 

The  time  is  past,  — and  now  that  grows 
The  cypress  high  among  the  trees, 

And  I behold  white  sepulchres 
As  well  as  the  white  rose.  — 


JOYOUSNESS  OF  CHILDREN. 


135 


When  wiser,  meeker  thoughts  are  given, 
And  I have  learnt  to  lift  my  face, 
Remembering  earth’s  greenest  place 
The  color  draws  from  Heaven. 

If  something  saith  for  earthly  pain, 

But  more  for  heavenly  promise  free, 
That  I who  was,  would  shrink  to  be 
That  happy  child  again. 


JOYOUSNESS  OF  CHILDREN. 

How  should  it  be  otherwise?  I can  bear  a 
melancholy  man,  but  never  a melancholy  child. 
Into  whatever  quagmire  the  former  sinks,  he  may 
raise  his  eyes  either  to  the  realm  of  reason,  or  to 
that  of  hope  ; but  the  little  child  sinks  and  perishes 
in  a single  black  poison-drop  of  the  present  time. 
Only  imagine  a child  conducted  to  the  scaffold,  — 
Cupid  in  a German  coffin,  — or  fancy  a butterfly 
crawling  like  a caterpillar,  with  his  four  wings  pulled 
off,  and  you  will  feel  what  I mean. 


136 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


TO  MY  CHILDEEN  SLEEPING. 

What  holy  calmness  brooded  o’er  the  nest, 

Where  four  — and  each  a treasure  — sleeping  lay, 
Treasures  in  caskets  of  frail  human  clay, 

But  fair,  though  frail,  by  Beauty’s  seal  impressed. 
The  long,  dark  eyelashes  on  Willie’s  cheek  • 
Tempered  the  damask  blush  that  mantled  there, 

But  sleep  could  scarce  subdue  the  ardent  air 
Where  all  the  day’s  past  feelings  clearly  speak. 

On  Francis’  saint-like  paleness,  halcyon  Peace 
Had  left  the  impression  of  his  latest  prayer ; 

And  they  who  paused  to  gaze  — few  could  forbear  — 
Felt  holy  thoughts  and  heavenly  hopes  increase. 
Bend  o’er  the  couch  of  childhood,  — ’t  will  control  , 
Passion’s  wild  storm,  and  purify  thy  soul. 

Arthur’s  luxuriant  curls,  and  front  of  snow, 

Where  darkly  delicate  his  eyebrows  shone, 

His  loving  face  that  sculpture  well  might  own, 

Where  healthful  joy  diffused  its  purest  glow, 

By  Clarence’s  softer  elegance  were  laid ; 

Whose  bended  neck  confiding  love  portrayed  ; 


A PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  SON. 


137 


So  droops  the  slight  laburnum,  fond  to  blend 
Where  the  rich  clusters  of  the  lilac  tend. 

But  in  the  inmost  chamber  one  reclines, 

A single  bird  within  her  downy  nest ; 

A pearl  detached,  — too  precious  for  the  rest : 
Round  no  fond  neck  her  polished  arm  entwines, 
Lovely  and  lone,  this  sweeter  blossom  lies, 

Just  lent  to  earth,  — but  ripening  for  the  skies. 


A PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  SON, 

AGED  THREE  YEARS  AND  FIVE  MONTHS. 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf ! 

(But  stop,  — first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear  !) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself ! 

(My  love,  he  ’s  poking  peas  into  his  ear !) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite  ! 

With  spirits  feather  light, 

Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin, 
(Good  heavens  ! the  child  is  swallowing  a pin  !) 


138 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 

With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, 

(The  door  ! the  door ! he  ’ll  tumble  down  the  stair !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire ! 

(Why,  Jane,  he  ’ll  set  his  pinafore  afire !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy ! 

In  love’s  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a link, 

Thou  idol  of  thy  parents.  (Hang  the  boy ! 

There  goes  my  ink  !) 


Thou  cherub,  — but  of  earth  ; 

Fit  playfellow  for  fays  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 

(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail !) 

Thou  human  humming-bee  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 
Singing  in  youth’s  Elysium  ever  sunny, 

(Another  tumble,  — that ’s  his  precious  nose  !) 

Thy  father’s  pride  and  hope  ! 

(He  ’ll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope  !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature’s  mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ?) 


A PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  SON. 


139 


Thou  young  domestic  dove  ! 

(He  ’ll  have  that  jug  off  with  another  shove  !) 
Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest ! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best  ?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 

(He  ’ll  climb  upon  the  table,  that ’s  his  plan  !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 
(He ’s  got  a knife  !) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 

No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 
Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John ! 

Toss  the  light  ball,  — bestride  the  stick, 

(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick !) 
With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk 
With  many  a lamb-like  frisk, 

(He ’s  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown  !) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose ! 

(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  !) 
Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 

(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth !) 
Fresh  as  the  moon,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 

(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar !) 


140 


' PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, 

(I  ’ll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 

I cannot  write  unless  he ’s  sent  above !) 


THE  GYPSY  CHILD. 

He  sprung  to  life  in  a crazy  tent, 

Where  the  cold  wind  whistled  through  many  a rent 
Rude  was  the  voice,  and  rough  were  the  hand's, 
That  soothed  his  wailings  and  swathed  his  bands, 

No  tissue  of  gold,  no  lawn  was  there, 

No  snowy  robe  for  the  new-born  heir ; 

But  the  mother  wept,  and  the  father  smiled, 

With  heart-felt  joy  o’er  the  gypsy  child. 

4 

He  grows  like  the  young  oak,  healthy  and  broad, 
With  no  home  but  the  forest,  no  bed  but  the  sward ; 
Half  naked,  he  wades  in  the  limpid  stream 
Or  dances  about  in  the  scorching  beam. 

The  dazzling  glare  of  the  banquet  sheen 
Hath  never  fallen  on  him,  I ween  : 


THE  GYPSY  CHILD. 


141 


But  fragments  are  spread,  and  the  wood-fire  piled, 
And  sweet  is  the  meal  of  the  gypsy  child. 

He  wanders  at  large,  while  the  maidens  admire 
His  raven  hair  and  his  eyes  of  fire ; 

They  mark  his  cheek’s  rich  tawny  hue, 

With  the  deep  carnation  flushing  through  ; 

He  laughs  aloud,  and  they  covet  his  teeth, 

All  pure  and  white  as  their  own  pearl-wreath ; 
And  the  courtly  dame  and  damsel  mild 
Will  turn  to  gaze  on  the  gypsy  child. 

Up  with  the  sun,  he  is  roving  along, 

Whistling  to  nymic  the  blackbird’s  song, 

He  wanders  at  nightfall  to  startle  the  owl, 

And  is  baying  again  to  the  watch-dog’s  howl, 

His  limbs  are  unshackled,  his  spirit  is  bold, 

He  is  free  from  the  evils  of  fashion  and  gold ; 

His  dower  is  scant,  and  his  life  is  wild, 

But  kings  might  envy  the  gypsy  child. 


7 


142 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


TIRED  OF  PLAY. 

Tired  of  play  ! Tired  of  play  ! 

What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day  ? 

The  birds  are  hushed,  and  so  is  the  bee ; 

The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and  tree  ; 

The  doves  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 
And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  leaves 
Twilight  gathers,  and  day  is  done,  — 

How  hast  thou  spent  it,  restless  one  ! 

Playing  ? But  what  hast  thou  done  beside 
To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide  ? 

What  promise  of  morn  is  left  uubroken  ? 

What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken  ? 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven? 
How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 

What  hast  thou  learned  by  field  and  hill 
By  greenwood  path,  and  by  singing  rill  ? 

There  will  come  an  eve  to  a longer  day, 

That  will  find  thee  tired,  — but  not  of  play ! 
And  thou  wilt  lean,  as  thou  leanest  now, 

With  drooping  limbs  and  aching  brow, 


TIRED  OF  PLAY. 


143 


And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster  creep, 

And  long  to  go  to  thy  quiet  sleep. 

Well  were  it  then  if  thine  aching  brow 
Were  as  free  from  sin  and  shame  as  now  ! 

Well  for  thee,  if  thy  lip  could  tell 
A tale  like  this,  of  a day  spent  well. 

If  thine  open  hand  hath  relieved  distress,  — 

If  thy  pity  hath  sprung  to  wretchedness,  — 

If  thou  hast  forgiven  the  sore  offence,  — 

And  humbled  thy  heart  with  penitence,  — 

If  Nature’s  voices  have  spoken  to  thee 
With  their  holy  meanings  eloquently,  — 

If  every  creature  hath  won  thy  love, 

From  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brooding  dove, 
If  never  a sad,  low-spoken  word 
Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart  unheard,  — 
Then,  when  the  night  steals  on,  as  now, 

It  will  bring  relief  to  thine  aching  brow, 

And  with  joy  and  peace  at  the  thought  of  rest, 
Thou  wilt  sink  to  sleep  on  thy  mother’s  breast. 


“ Where  children  are,  there  is  the  Golden  age.” 

Novalis. 


144 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

There  is  a reaper  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 

He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

Shall  I have  naught  that  is  fair,  saith  he, 

Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 

Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me 
I will  give  them  all  back  again. 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

“ My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay,” 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled : 

“ Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a child. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 


145 


“ They  all  shall  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 
Transplanted  by  my  care, 

And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 
These  sacred  blossoms  wear.” 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above. 


There  is  nothing  innocent  or  good,  that  dies  and 
is  forgotten.  Let  us  hold  to  that  faith.  An  infant, 
a prattling  child,  dying  in  its  cradle,  will  live  again 
m the  better  thoughts  of  those  who  loved  it.  When 
Death  strikes  down  the  innocent  and  young,  for 


146  PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 

*- 

every  fragile  form  whose  spirit  is  freed  a hundred 
virtues  rise,  in  shapes  of  mercy,  charity,  and  love, 
to  walk  the  world,  and  bless  it  with  their  light.  Of 
every  tear  that  sorrowing  mortals  shed  on  such  green 
graves,  some  good  is  born,  some  gentler  nature 
comes.  In  the  Destroyer’s  steps  there  spring  up 
bright  creations  that  defy  his  power,  and  his  dark 
path  becomes  a way  of  light  to  Heaven. 

Charles  Dickens. 


THE  LITTLE  STEP-SON. 

I have  a little  step-son,  the  loveliest  thing  alive, 

A noble,  sturdy  boy  is  he,  and  yet  he ’s  only  five  ; 

His  smooth  cheek  hath  a blooming  glow,  his  eyes  are 
black  as  jet, 

And  his  lips  are  like  two  rose-buds,  all  tremulous  and 
wet. 

His  days  pass  off  in  sunshine,  in  laughter  and  in 
song, 

As  careless  as  a summer-rill  that  sings  itself  along ; 


THE  LITTLE  STEP-SON. 


147 


For  like  a pretty  fairy-tale,  that ’s  all  too  quickly  told, 

Is  the  young  life  of  a little  one  that ’s  only  five  years 
old. 

He ’s  dreaming  in  his  happy  couch  before  the  day 
grows  dark. 

lie  ’s  up  with  morning’s  rosy  ray,  a singing  with  the 
lark  ! 

Where’er  the  flowers  are  freshest,  where’er  the  grass 
is  green, 

With  light  locks  waving  on  the  wind  his  fairy  form 
is  seen ; 

Amid  the  whistling  March  winds,  amid  the  April 
showers, 

He  warbles  with  the  singing-birds,  and  prattles  to 
the  flowers, 

He  cares  not  for  the  summer  heat,  he  cares  not  for 
the  cold,  — 

My  sturdy  little  step-son,  that ’s  only  five  years  old. 

How  touching ’t  is  to  see  him  clasp  his  dimpled  hands 
in  prayer, 

And  raise  his  little  rosy  face,  with  reverential  air ! 

How  simple  is  his  eloquence ! how  soft  his  accents 
fall, 


148 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


When  pleading  with  the  King  of  kings  to  love  and 
bless  us  all ; 

And  when  from  prayer  he  bounds  away  in  innocence 
and  joy, 

The  blessing  of  a smiling  God  goes  with  the  sinless 
boy. 

A little  lambkin  of  the  flock,  within  the  Saviour’s 
fold 

Is  he,  my  lovely  step-son,  that ’s  only  five  years  old. 

I have  not  told  you  of  our  home,  that  in  the  summer 
hours 

Stands  in  its  simple  modesty,  half  hid  among  the 
flowers ; 

I have  not  said  a single  word  about  our  mines  of 
wealth,  — 

Our  treasures  are,  this  little  boy,  contentment,  peace, 
and  health ; 

For  e’en  a lordly  hall  to  us  would  be  a voiceless  place 

Without  the  gush  of  his  glad  voice,  the  gleams  of  his 
bright  face : 

And  many  a courtly  pair,  I ween,  would  give  their 
gems  and  gold 

For  a noble,  happy  boy  like  ours,  some  four  or  five 
years  old. 


MORNING. 


149 


MORNING. 

Soft  the  air  and  fresh  the  dew, 
Fragrance  unconsumed,  unworn, 

Earth  is  young  and  life  is  new, 
Childhood's  heart  is  in  the  morn ; 

Birds,  with  wing  upraised  to  heaven 
Music  utter  hushed  too  soon, 

Songs  to  favored  morning  given, 

All  unheard  by  sultry  noon  ; 

Softest  quiet,  sweet  repose, 

God's  beloved  and  favored  hour, 

For  his  spirit  lives  and  glows, 

Waking  in  each  wakening  flower. 

Such  is  youth,  and  this  is  thine, 

Sweets  like  morning’s  self-revealing, 

Softened  dawnings  all  divine, 

O’er  the  spirit’s  world  are  stealing ; 

Vigor,  never  known  again, 

Quiet,  as  no  other  hath, 

7* 


150 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Thou  wilt  weep  for  it  in  vain, 

When  the  sun  is  on  thy  path  ; 

But  as  sometimes  in  mid  June, 
Coolness  lingers  through  the  day, 
Bathing  the  hot  brow  of  noon, 
Shadowing  the  dusty  way ; 

So  mayst  thou  as  life  comes  on, 

Still  the  grace  of  childhood  prove, 
Keeping,  though  its  bloom  be  gone, 
All  its  light,  and  faith,  and  love. 


“ I feel  dependent  for  a vigorous  and  hopeful  spirit  on  now 
and  then  a kind  word,  the  merry  laugh  of  a child,  or  the  silent 
greeting  of  a flower.” 

Dr.  Follen. 

11  A babe  in  a house  is  a well-spring  of  pleasure.” 

Proverbial  Philosophy. 

“I  despise  the  man  who  can  think  lightly  of  his  early  days. 
The  pranks  and  plans  of  infancy  are  the  airy  effervescence  of 
uncalculating  single-heartedness.  They  are  shed  from  the  young 
spirit’s  beauty,  like  the  sweet  perfume  of  a flower.” 

My  Early  Days. 


THRENODY. 


151 


THRENODY. 

1 Hearts  are  dust,  heart’s  loves  remain, 

Heart’s  love  will  meet  thee  again.” 

And  whither  now,  my  truant  wise  and  sweet, 
O,  whither  tend  thy  feet  ? 

I had  the  right,  few  days  ago, 

Thy  steps  to  watch,  thy  place  to  know ; 

How  have  I forfeited  the  right  ? 

Hast  thou  forgot  me  in  a new  delight  ? 

I hearken  for  thy  household  cheer, 

0 eloquent  child ! 

Whose  voice,  an  equal  messenger, 

Conveyed  thy  meaning  mild. 

What  though  the  pains  and  joys 
Whereof  it  spoke  were  toys 
Fitting  his  age  and  ken, 

Yet  fairest  dames  and  bearded  men, 

Who  heard  the  sweet  request, 

So  gentle,  wise,  and  grave, 

Blended  with  joy  to  his  behest, 

And  let  the  world’s  affairs  go  by, 

Awhile  to  share  his  cordial  game, 

01  mend  his  wicker  wagon-frame, 


152 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Still  plotting  how  their  hungry  ear 
That  winsome  voice  again  might  hear  ; 
For  his  lips  could  well  pronounce 
Words  that  were  persuasions,  — 
Gentlest  guardians  marked  serene 
His  early  hope,  his  liberal  mien  ; 

Took  counsel  from  his  guiding  eyes 
To  make  this  wisdom  earthly  wise. 

Ah,  vainly  do  these  eyes  recall 
The  school-march,  each  day’s  festival, 
When  every  morn  my  bosom  glowed. 
To  watch  the  convoy  on  the  road ; 

The  babe  in  willow  wagon  closed, 
With  rolling  eyes  and  face  composed  ; 
With  children  forward  and  behind, 
Like  cupids  studiously  inclined ; 

And  he,  the  chieftain,  paced  beside, 
The  centre  of  the  troop  allied, 

With  sunny  face  of  sweet  repose, 

To  guard  the  babe  from  fancied  foes. 
The  little  captain  innocent 
Took  the  eye  with  him  as  he  went ; 
Each  village  senior  paused  to  scan 
And  speak  the  lovely  caravan. 


THRENODY. 


153 


From  the  window  I look  out 
To  mark  thy  beautiful  parade, 

Stately  marching  in  cap  and  coat 
To  some  tune  by  fairies  played ; — 

A music  heard  by  thee  alone 
To  works  as  noble  led  thee  on. 

Now  Love  and  Pride,  alas  ! in  vain, 

Up  and  down  their  glances  strain. 

The  painted  sled  stands  where  it  stood  ; 

The  kennel  by  the  corded  wood ; 

The  gathered  sticks  to  stanch  the  wall 
Of  the  snow-tower,  when  snow  should  fall, 
The  ominous  hole  he  dug  in  the  sand, 

And  childhood’s  castles  built  or  planned  ; 

His  daily  haunts  I well  discern,  — 

The  poultry-yard,  the  shed,  the  barn,  — 

And  every  inch  of  garden  ground 
Paced  by  the  blessed  feet  around, 

From  the  roadside  to  the  brook 
Whereinto  he  loved  to  look. 

Step  the  meek  birds  where  erst  they  ranged  ; 
The  wintry  garden  lies  unchanged ; 

The  brook  into  the  stream  runs  on ; 

But  the  deep-eyed  boy  is  gone. 


154 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


HOUSEHOLD  TREASURES. 

What  are  they  ? gold  and  silver  ? 

Or  what  such  ore  can  buy  ? 

The  pride  of  silken  luxury,  — 

Rich  robes  of  Tyrian  dye  ? 

Or  are  they  daintiest  meats 
Served  up  on  silver  fine  ? 

Or  golden  cups  o’erbrimmed 
With  rich  Sabrucian  wine  ? 

O no ! they  are  not  these ! or  else 
God  help  the  poor  man’s  need ! 

Then,  sitting  ’mid  his  little  ones 
He  would  be  poor  indeed  ! 

They  are  not  these,  — our  household  wealth 
Belongs  not  to  degree, 

It  is  the  love  within  our  souls,  — 

The  children  at  our  homes ! 

My  heart  is  filled  with  gladness 
When  I behold  how  fair, 

How  bright  are  rich  men’s  children 
With  their  thick  and  golden  hair ! 

For  I know  ’mid  countless  treasures 
Gleaned  from  the  East  and  West 
These  luring,  loving  human  things 


HOUSEHOLD  TREASURES.  155 

Are  still  the  rich  man’s  best ! 

But  my  heart  o’erfloweth  to  mine^eyes, 

And  a prayer  is  on  my  tongue, 

When  I see  the  poor  man’s  children  — 

The  toiling,  though  the  young  — 

Gathering  with  sun-burnt  hands 
The  dusty  wayside  flowers  ! 

Alas  ! that  pastime  symboleth 
Life’s  after,  darker  hours  ! 

My  heart  o’erfloweth  to  mine  eye? 

When  I see  the  poor  man  stand, 

After  his  daily  work  is  done, 

With  children  by  the  hand  : 

And  this  he  kisseth  tenderly 
And  that  sweet  names  doth  call, 

For  I know  he  hath  no  treasure 
Like  those  dear  children  small ! 

O children  young,  I bless  ye  ! 

Ye  keep  such  love  alive  ! 

And  the  home  can  ne’er  he  desolate 
Where  love  has  room  to  thrive  ; 

0 precious  household  treasures, 

Life’s  sweetest,  holiest  claim,  — 

The  Saviour  blest  ye  while  on  earth,  — 

1 bless  ye  in  his  name  ! 


0 

156  PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS- 

THE  STAR  AND  THE  FLOWER; 

OR,  THE  TWO  PETS. 

“ Ad  ogni  uccello 
Suo  nido  6 bello.” 

Ah  ! yours,  with  her  light-waving  hair, 

That  droops  to  her  shoulders  of  snow, 

And  her  cheek,  where  the  palest  and  purest  of  roses 
* 

Most  faintly  and  tenderly  glow  ! 

There  is  something  celestial  about  her ; 

I never  beheld  the  fair  child, 

Without  thinking  she ’s  pluming  invisible  wings 
For  a region  more  holy  and  mild. 

There  is  so  much  of  pure  seraph  fire 
Within  the  dark  depths  of  her  eye, 

That  I feel  a resistless  and  earnest  desire 
To  hold  her  for  fear  she  should  fly. 

Her  smile  is  as  soft  as  a spirit’s,  — 

As  sweet  as  a bird’s  is  her  tone  ; 

She  is  fair  as  the  silvery  star  of  the  morn. 

When  it  gleams  through  the  gray  mist  alone. 


THE  STAR  AND  *THE  FLOWER. 


157 


But  mine  is  a simple  wild-flower, 

A balmy  and  beautiful  thing, 

That  glows  with  new  ^pve  and  delight  every  hour, 
Through  the  tears  and  the  smiles  of  sweet  spring ! 

Her  eyes  have  the  dark  brilliant  azure 
Of  heaven  in  a clear  summer  night, 

And  each  impulse  of  frolicksome,  infantine  joy, 
Brings  a shy  little  dimple  to  light. 

Her  young  soul  looks  bright  from  a brow 
Too  fair  for  earth’s  sorrow  and  shame  ; 

Her  graceful  and  glowing  lip  curls,  even  now, 

With  a spirit  no  tyrant  can  tame. 

Then  let  us  no  longer  compare 
These  tiny  pet  treasures  of  ours  ; 

For  yours  shall  be  loveliest  still  of  the  stars, 

And  mine  shall  be  fairest  of  flowers. 


“ Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 

That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


158 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  INFANTRY. 

» 

Betsey ’s  got  another  baby  ! 

Darling,  precious  little  tyke ! 
Grandma  says  — and  she  knows,  surely 
That  you  never  saw  its  like. 

Is  n’t  it  a beaming  beauty,  — 

Lying  there  so  sweet  and  snug  ? 

Mrs.  Jones,  pray  stop  your  scandal ; 
Darling’s  nose  is  not  a pug ! 

Some  one  says ’t  is  Pa  all  over, 
Whereat  Pa  turns  rather  red, 

And,  to  scan  his  features,  quickly 
To  the  looking-glass  has  fled  : 

But  recovers  his  composure, 

When  he  hears  the  nurse’s  story, 
Who  admits,  that  of  all  babies 
This  indeed ’s  the  crowning  glory  ! 

Aunt  Lucretia  says  she  guesses  — 

Says  indeed  she  knows  it,  poz  — 

That ’t  will  prove  to  be  a greater 
Man  than  e’er  its  father  was ; 


THE  CHARGE  OF  INFANTRY. 


159 


Proving  thus  the  modern  thesis, 
Held  by  reverend  doctors  sage, 
That  in  babies,  as  in  wisdom, 

This  is  a “ progressive  ” age. 

Uncle  Henry  looks  and  wonders 
At  so  great  a prodigy  ; 

Close  and  closer  still  he  presses, 
Thinking  something  brave  to  see. 
Up  they  hold  the  babe  before  him, 
While  they  gather  in  a ring, 

But,  alas ! the  staggered  uncle 
Vainly*  tries  his  praise  to  sing. 

As  he  stares,  the  lovely  infant, 
Nestling  by  its  mother’s  side, 
Opes  its  little  mouth,  and,  smiling, 

* Gurgles  forth  a milky  tide. 

Uncle  tries  to  hide  his  blushes, 
Looks  about  to  find  his  hat, 
Stumbles  blindly  o’er  the  cradle, 
And  upsets  the  startled  cat. 


160  PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 

Why,  O why  such  awkward  blunders  ? 

Better  far  have  stayed  away, 

Nor  have  thrust  yourself  where  woman 
Holds  an  undisputed  sway  : 

Do  you  think  that  now  they  ’ll  name  it, 
As  they  meant  to,  after  you  ? 
Wretched  mortal ! let  me  answer, 

You  ’re  deluded  if  you  do ! 

Round  about  the  noisy  women 
Pass  the  helpless  stranger  now, 
Raptured  with  each  nascent  feature, 
Chin  and  mouth  and  eyes  and  brow  ; 
And  for  this  young  bud  of  promise 
All  neglect  the  rose  in  bloom, 

Eldest  born,  who,  quite  forgotten, 

Pouts  within  her  lonely  room. 


Sound  the  stage-horn  ! ring  the  cow-bell ! 

That  the  waiting  world  may  know  ; 
Publish  it  through  all  our  borders, 

Even  unto  Mexico. 


HOME. 


161 


Seize  your  pen,  O dreaming  po$Pl 
And  in  numbers  smooth  as  may  be, 
Spread  afar  the  joyful  tidings, 

Betsey  ’s  got  another  baby ! 


The  chicken  walks  from  out  its  shell,  and  goes  its  food  to  find, 
While  helpless  lies  for  months  and  years  the  child  of  human 
kind; 

Which  yet,  by  gradual  growth,  o’ertops  all  else  in  strength  and 
mind. 

0,  slow  of  thought ! remember  this,  — be  thankful  and  resigned. 

Saadi  the  Persian  Poet  of  Schiraz. 


HOME. 

Thou,  whose  every  hour 
Is  spent  in  home’s  green  bower, 

Where  love,  like  golden  fruit  o’erhanging  grows, 
Where  those  to  thy  soul  sweet 
United,  circling,  meet, 

As  lapping  leaves  which  form  the  entire  rose ; 
Thank  thy  God  well,  — soon  from  this  joy  thy  day 

Passes  away. 


162 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Thou,  f¥om  whose  household  nooks 
Peep  forth  gay  gleaming,  looks, 

Those  “ fairy  heads  ” shot  up  from  opening  flowers, 
With  wondrous  perfume  filled 
The  fresh,  the  undistilled, 

The  overflowing  bliss  that  childhood  showers 
Praise  him  who  gave,  and  at  whose  word  their  stay 

Passes  away. 


EXTRACT  FROM  KING  JOHN.  Act  III 

King  Philip . You  are  as  fond  of  grief  as  of  your 
child. 

Constance,  He  talks  to  me  that  never  had  a son. 
Grief  fills  the  room  up  of  my  absent  child, 

Lies  in  his  bed,  walks  up  and  down  with  me ; 

Puts  on  his  pretty  looks,  repeats  his  words, 
Remembers  me  of  all  his  gracious  parts, 

Stuffs  out  his  vacant  garments  with  his  form ; 

Then,  have  I reason  to  be  fond  of  grief. 


OUR  BIRTHDAYS. 


163 


OUR  BIRTHDAYS. 

What  different  dooms  our  birthdays  bring ! 

For  instance,  this  little  manikin  thing 
Survives  to  wear  many  a wrinkle ; 

While  that  little  .craft  is  cast  away 
In  its  very  first  trip  to  Babbicome  Bay, 

And  expires  without  even  a twinkle. 

What  different  lots  our  stars  accord ! 

This  babe  to  be  hailed  and  wooed  as  a Lord ! 

And  that  to  be  shunned  like  a leper ! 

One  to  the  world’s  wine,  honey,  and  corn, 
Another,  like  Colchester  native,  born 
To  its  vinegar,  only,  and  pepper. 

And  the  other  sex,  — the  tender,  — the  fair,  — 
What  wide  reverses  of  fate  are  there, 

Whilst  Margaret,  charmed  by  the  Bulbul  rare, 
In  a garden  of  Gul  reposes,  — 

Poor  Peggy  hawks  nosegays  from  street  to  street, 
Till  — think  of  that,  who  finds  life  so  sweet ! — 
She  hates  the  smell  of  roses  ! 


164 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


FRAGMENT 

FROM  THE  LIST  OF  “DAILY  TRIALS.” 

Children,  with  drums 
Strapped  round  them  by  the  fond  paternal  ass, 
Peripatetics  with  a blade  of  grass 
Between  their  thumbs. 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  GOSSAMER. 

A sunbeam  was  playing  through  flowers  that  hung 
Round  a casement,  that  looked  to  the  day, 

And  its  bright  touch  wakened  a child,  who  sung 
As  it  woke,  and  began  its  play  ; 

And  it  played  with  the  gossamer  beam  that  shed 
Its  fairy  brightness  around  its  head  : 

O,  ’t  was  sweet  to  see  that  child  so  fair, 

At  play  with  the  dazzling  things  of  air. 


THE  BABY’S  COMPLAINT. 


165 


O,  never  was  a lovelier  plaything  seen, 

To  childhood’s  simplicity  given, 

It  seemed  like  a delicate  link  between 
The  creatures  of  earth  and  heaven : 

But  the  sunbeam  was  crossed  by  an  angry  cloud, 

And  the  gossamer  died  in  the  shadowy  shroud, 

And  the  child  looked  sad,  when  the  bright  things  fled, 
And  its  smile  was  gone,  — and  its  tears  were  shed. 

0 gentle  child,  in  thy  infant  play, 

An  emblem  of  life  hast  thou  seen ; 

For  joys  are  like  sunbeams,  — more ' fleeting  than 
they, 

And  sorrows  cast  shadows  between ; 

And  friends  that  in  moments  of  brightness  are  won, 
Like  gossamer,  only  are  seen  — in  the  sun. 

O,  many  a lesson  of  sadness  may 
Be  learned,  from  a joyous  child  at  play. 


THE  BABY’S  COMPLAINT. 

Now,  I suppose  you  think  because  you  never  see 
me  do  anything  but  feed  and  sleep,  that  I have  a 
8 


166 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


very  nice  time  of  it.  Let  me  tell  that  you  are  mis- 
taken, and  that  I am  tormented  half  to  death,  though 
I never  say  anything  about  it.  How  should  you 
like  every  morning  to  have  a pin  put  through  your 
dress  into  your  skin,  and  to  have  to  bear  it  all  day 
until  your  clothes  were  taken  off  at  night?  How 
should  you  like  to  be  held  so  near  the  fire  that 
your  eyes  were  half  scorched  out  of  your  head, 
while  the  nurse  was  reading  a novel  ? How  should 
you  like  to  have  a great  fly  on  your  nose,  and  not 
know  how  to  take  aim  at  him  with  your  little  fat, 

useless  fingers  ? How  should  you  like  to  tire 

yourself  out  crawling  away  across  the  carpet,  to 
pick  up  a pretty  button  or  pin,  and  have  it  snatched 
away  as  soon  as  you  begin  to  enjoy  it?  I tell  you 
it  is  enough  to  ruin  any  baby’s  temper  ! How 
should  you  like  to  have  your  mamma  stay  at  a 
party  till  you  were  as  hungry  as  a little  cub,  and 
be  left  to  the  mercy  of  a nurse,  who  trotted  you 
up  and  down  till  every  bone  in  your  body  ached? 
How  should  you  like  when  your  mamma  dressed  you 
all  up  pretty  to  take  the  nice  fresh  air,  to  spend  the 
afternoon  in  some  smoky  kitchen,  while  she  gossips 
with  some  of  her  cronies  ? How  should  you  like 


GOOD  LIFE,  LONG  LIFE. 


167 


to  have  your  toes  tickled  by  all  the  little  children 
who  insisted  on  seeing  “ baby’s  feet  ” ? How  should 
you  like  to  have  a dreadful  pain  under  your  apron, 
and  have  e^rybody  call  you  a 66  cross  little  thing,” 
when  you  could  not  speak  to  tell  what  was  the 
matter  with  you  ? How  should  you  like  to  crawl  to 
the  top  of  the  stairs  (just  to  look  about  a little) 
and  pitch  heels  over  head  from  the  top  to  the  bot- 
tom ? . . . . * 


GOOD  LIFE,  LONG  LIFE. 

Extract  from  an  Ode  Pindaric.  Author  born  1754. 

A lily  of  a day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May  ; 

Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, 

It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light ! 

In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see  ; 

And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 


168 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


THE  CHILD’S  EEVEEIE. 

The  idea  of  the  following  lines  was  really  expressed  by 
little  boy  five  years  old.  # 

0, 1 long  to  lie,  dear  mother, 

On  the  cool  and  fragrant  grass, 

With  naught  but  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  shadowing  clouds  that  pass. 

And  I want  the  bright,  bright  sunshine, 

All  round  about  my  bed, 

I will  close  my  eyes,  and  God  will  think 
Your  little  boy  is  dead ! 

Then  Christ  will  send  an  angel 
To  take  me  up  to  him ; 

He  will  bear  me,  slow  and  steadily, 

Far  through  the  ether  dim. 

« 

He  will  gently,  gently  lay  me 
Close  to  the  Saviour’s-side, 

And  when  I ’m  sure  that  we  ’re  in  heaven, 

My  eyes  I ’ll  open  wide. 


THE  CHILD’S  REVERIE. 


1G9 


And  I ’ll  look  among  the  angels 
That  stand  about  the  throne, 

Till  I find  my  sister  Mary, 

For  I know  she  must  be  one. 

And  when  I find  her,  mother, 

We  will  go  away  alone, 

And  I will  tell  her  how  we  Ve  mourned, 

All  the  while  she  has  been  gone ! 

0, 1 shall  be  delighted 

To  hear  her  speak  again,  — 

Though  I know  she  ’ll  ne’er  return  to  us,  — 
To  ask  her  would  be  vain  ! 

So  I ’ll  put  my  arms  around  her, 

And  look  into  her  eyes, 

And  remember  all  I said  to  her, 

And  all  her  sweet  replies. 

And  then  I ’ll  a^:  the  angel 
To  take  me  back  to  you,  — 

He  ’ll  bear  me,  slow  and  steadily, 

Down  through  the  ether  blue. 


170 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


And  you  ’ll  only  think, -dear  mother, 

I have  been  out  at  play, 

And  have  gone  to  sleep,  beneath  a tree. 
This  sultry  summer  day. 


THE  CHILDLESS. 

When  I think  upon  the  childless, 
How  I sorrow  for  the  gloom 
That  pervades  the  silent  chambers 
Of  the  still  and  joyless  home ! 
They  do  not  hear  the  gleesome  sound 
Of  infant  voices  sweet, 

The  gush  of  fairy  laughter, 

Or  the  tread  of  tiny  feet. 

Their  hand  the  little  shSiing  head 
Can  never  fondly  press, 

They  never  on  the  coral  lip 
Imprint  a warm  caress  ; 


THE  CHILDLESS. 


171 


They  never  hear  a lisping  tongue 
Pronounce  their  name  in  prayer, 
Or  watch  beside  the  cradle 
Of  a slumberer  calm  and  fair. 


Their  age  is  dull  and  lonely ; 

In  the  solemn  hour  of  death 
No  fond  and  weeping  offspring 
Receive  the  parting  breath  ; 

And  they  feel  the  hollow  nothingness 
Of  honors,  lands,  and  name, 
Knowing  that  those  who  love  them  not 
The  heritage  must  claim. 


Thus  I sorrowed  for  the  childless  ; 

But  erelong,  in  happier  mood, 

I thought  how  Providence  o’erruies 
Each  earthly  thing  for  good. 

With  the  pleasures  of  the  parent 
Their  lot  I had  compared, 

But  dwelt  not  on  the  trials 

And  the  troubles  they  were  spared. 


172 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


They  know  not  what  it  is  to  stand 
An  infant  sufferer  by,  — 

To  mark  the  crimson-fevered  cheek, 
The  bright  and  restless  eye  ; 

And  feel  that  in  that  feeble  breast, 
That  form  of  fragile  make, 

Their  happiness  is  garnered  up, 
Their  earthly  hopes  at  stake. 

They  know  not,  as  the  mind  unfolds, 
How  hard  it  is  to  win 
The  little  heart  to  cling  to  good, 

And  shun  the  ways  of  sin : 

They  reck  not  of  the  awful  charge, 
Amid  a world  of  strife, 

To  train  a tenant  for  the  skies, 

An  heir  of  endless  life. 


They  see  not  the  small  coffin  laid 
Beneath  the  heavy  sod, 

Striving  to  school  their  bursting  hearts 
To  bear  the  stroke  of  God  ; 


THE  CHILDLESS. 


173 


Then  turning  to  the  dreary  home, 
Once  gay  with  childish  mirth, 

To  view  the  silent  nursery,  — 

The  sad,  deserted  hearth. 

Yet,  is  it  not  a blessed  thought 
That  we  have  one  above 

Who  deals  to  us  our  varied  gifts 
With  such  impartial  love  ? 

Let  not  another’s  favored  lot 
Our  anxious  minds  molest ; 

God  knows  alike  his  need  and  ours, 
And  judges  for  the  best. 

He  wisely  with  some  shadowy  cloud 
O’erspreads  our  brightest  day  ; 

He  kindly  cheers  our  deepest  gloom 
With  some  benignant  ray  ; 

And  we  may  safely  rest  on  Him, 
Whose  loving  mercy  lies 

Not  only  in  the  good  he  sends, 

But  that  which  he  denies. 

8 * 


174 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


CHILDHOOD’S  GUARDIAN  ANGELS. 

O’er  wayward  childhood  would’st  thou  hold  firm  rule, 
And  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy  faces. 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience,  these  must  be  thy  graces, 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school, 
For  as  old  Atlas  on  his  broad  neck  places 
Heaven’s  starry  globe,  and  there  sustains  it ; — so 
Do  these  upbear  the  little  world  below 
Of  Education  — Patience,  Love,  and  Hope. 
Methinks  I see  them  grouped  in  seemly  show, 

The  straitened  arms  upraised,  the  palms  aslope, 

And  robes  that,  touching  as  adown  they  flow, 
Distinctly  blend  like  snow  embossed  in  snow  ; 

O part  them  never ! If  hope  prostrate  he, 

Love  too  will  sink  and  die. 

But  Love  is  subtle,  and  doth  proof  derive 
From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet  alive ; 

And  bending  o’er,  with  soul-transfusing  eyes, 

And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  mother  dove, 

Woos  back  the  fleeting  spirit,  and  half  supplies : 
Thus  Love  repays  to  Hope  what  Hope  first  gave  to 
Love. 


TO  A STEP-CHILD. 


175 


Yet  haply  there  will  come  a weary  day, 

When  overtasked  at  length 
Both  Love  and  Hope  beneath  the  load  give  way. 
Then  with  a statue’s  smile,  a statue’s  strength, 
Stands  the  mute  sister,  Patience,  nothing  loath, 
And  both  supporting  does  the  work  of  both. 


TO  A STEP-CHILD. 

Tnou  art  not  mine  ; the  golden  locks  that  cluster 
Round  thy  broad  brow,  — 

Thy  blue  eyes,  with  their  soft  and  liquid  lustre, 
And  cheek  of  snow,  — 

E’en  the  strange  sadness  on  thy  infant  features, 
Blending  with  love, 

Are  hers,  whose  mournful  eyes  seem  sadly  bending 
On  her  lost  love. 

Thou  art  not  mine  ; upon  thy  sweet  lip  lingers 
Thy  mother’s  smile, 

And  while  I press  thy  soft  and  baby  fingers 
In  mine  the  while,  — - 


176 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


In  thy  deep  eyes,  so  trustfully  upraising 
Their  light  to  mine, 

I deem  the  spirit  of  thy  mother  gazing  • 

To  my  soul’s  shrine. 

They  ask  me,  with  their  meek  and  soft  beseeching, 

A mother’s  care ; 

They  ask  a mother’s  kind  and  patient  teaching,  — 

A mother’s  prayer. 

Not  mine,  — yet  dear  to  me,  — fair,  fragrant  blossom 
Of  a fair  tree, 

Crushed  to  the  earth  in  life’s  first  glorious  summer, 
Thou  art  dear  to  me, 

Child  of  the  lost,  the  buried,  and  the  sainted, 

I called  thee  mine, 

Till  fairer  still,  with  tears  and  sin  untainted. 

Her  home  be  thine. 


PICTURES  OF  MEMORY. 


177 


THE  YOUNGEST. 

I rocked  her  in  the  cradle, 

And  laid  her  in  the  tomb.  She  was  the  youngest ; 
What  fireside  circle  hath  not  felt  the  charm 
Of  that  sweet  tie  ? The  youngest  ne’er  grew  old. 
The  fond  endearment  of  our  earlier  days 
We  keep  alive  in  them,  and  when  they  die, 

Our  youthful  joys  we  bury  with  them. 


PICTURES  OF  MEMORY. 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 
That  hang  on  Memory’s  wall 
Is  one  of  a dim  old  forest, 

That  seemeth  the  best  of  all. 
Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden, 
Bark  with  the  mistletoe, 

Not  for  the  violets  golden, 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below  ; 


178 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies, 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 
And  stealing  their  golden  edge  ; 

Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 
Where  the  bright  red  berries  rest, 

Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale  sweet  cowslip, 
It  seemeth  to  me  the  best. 

I once  had  a little  brother 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep,  — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 
He  lieth  in  peace  asleep  ; 

Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 

We  roved  there,  the  beautiful  summers, 
The  summers  of  long  ago  ; 

But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 

I made  for  my  little  brother 
A bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 
My  neck  in  a meek  embrace, 


ON  AN  INFANT  DYING  AS  SOON  AS  BORN. 


179 


As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 
Silently  covered  his  face. 

And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 
Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 
Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 
That  hang  on  Memory’s  wall, 
The  one  of  the  dim  old  forest 
Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 


ON  AN  INFANT  DYING  AS  SOON  AS  BORN. 

I saw  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk 
A curious  frame  of  Nature’s  work. 

A floweret  crushed  in  the  bud, 

A nameless  piece  of  babyhood, 

Was  in  her  cradle-coffin  lying : 

Extinct  with  scarce  the  sense  of  dying : 

So  soon  to  exchange  the  imprisoning  womb 
For  darker  closets  of  the  tomb  ! 


180 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


She  did  but  ope  an  eye,  and  put 
A clear  beam  forth,  then  straight  up  shut 
For  the  long  dark ; ne’er  more  to  see 
Through  glasses  of  mortality. 

Riddle  of  destiny,  who  can  show 
What  thy  short  visit  meant,  or  know 
Wliat  thy  errand  here  below  ? 

Shall  we  say,  that  Nature  blind 
Checked  her  hand,  and  changed  her  mind, 

Just  when  she  had  exactly  wrought 
A finished  pattern  without  fault  ? 

- Could  she  flag,  or  could  she  tire, 

Or  lacked  she  the  Promethean  fire 

(With  her  nine  moons’  long  workings  sickened) 

That  should  thy  little  limbs  have  quickened  ? 

Limbs  so  firm,  they  seemed  to  assure 

Life  of  health,  and  days  mature : 

Woman’s  self  in  miniature  ! 

Limbs  so  fair,  they  might  supply 
(Themselves  now  but  cold  imagery) 

The  sculptor  to  lay  beauty  by, 

« Or  did  the  stern-eyed  Fate  descry, 

That  babe  or  mother,*  one  must  die  ; 

So  in  mercy  left  the  stock, 

And  cut  the  branch  ; to  save  the  shock 


ON  AN  INFANT  DYING  AS  SOON  AS  BORN.  181 


Of  young  years  widowed  ; and  the  pain, 

When  single  state  comes  back  again 
To  the  lone  man,  who,  reft  of  wife, 
Thenceforward  drags  a maimed  life  ? 

The  economy  of  Heaven  is  dark  ; 

And  wisest  clerks  have  missed  the  mark, 

Why  human  buds,  like  this,  should  fall, 

More  brief  than  fly  ephemeral, 

That  has  his  day  ; while  shrivelled  crones 
Stiffen  with  age  to  stocks  and  stones  ; 

And  crabbed  use  the  conscience  sears 
In  sinners  of  an  hundrecfryears. 

Mother’s  prattle,  mother’s  kiss, 

Baby  fond,  thou  ne’er  wilt  miss, 

Rites,  which  custom  does  impose, 

Silver  bells  and  baby  clothes  ; 

Coral  redder  than  those  lips, 

Which  pale  death  did  late  eclipse ; 

Music  framed  for  infant’s  glee, 

Whistle  never  tuned  for  thee ; 

Though  thou  want’st  not,  thou  shalt  have  them, 
Loving  hearts  were  they  which  gave  them. 

Let  not  one  be  missing  ; nurse, 


182 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


See  them  laid  upon  the  hearse 
Of  infant  slain  by  doom  perverse. 
Why  should  kings  and  nobles  have 
Pictured  trophies  to  them  grave  ; 
And  we,  churls,  to  thee  deny 
Thy  pretty  toys  with  thee  to  lie, 

A more  harmless  vanity  ? 


“THE  CHILD  IS  ^FATHER  OF  THE  MAN.” 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I behold 
A rainbow  in. the  sky ; 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began  ; 

So  is  it  now  I am  a man  ; 

So  be  it  when  I shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 

The  child  is  Father  of  the  Man  ; 

And  I could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 


183 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

A host  of  angels  flying, 

Through  cloudless  skies  impelled,  w 
Upon  the  earth  beheld 
A pearl  of  beauty  lying, 

Worthy  to  glitter  bright 
In  Heaven’s  vast  halls  of  light. 

They  saw,  with  glances  tender, 

An  infant  newly  born, 

O’er  whom  life’s  earliest  morn 
Just  cast  its  opening  splendor : 

Virtue  it  could  not  know, 

Nor  vice,  nor  joy,  nor  woe. 

The  blest  angelic  legion 
Greeted  its  birth  above, 

And  came,  with  looks  of  love, 
From  Heaven’s  enchanting  region  ; 
Bending  their  winged  way 
To  where  the  infant  lay  ! 


* 


184  PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 

They  spread  their  pinions  o’er  it,  — 
That  little  pearl  which  shone 
With  lustre  all  its  own,  — 

And  then  on  high  they  bore  it, 
Where  glory  has  its  birth  ; — 

But  left  the  shell  on  earth. 


EXTRACT  FROM  MACBETH.  Act  IV. 

Malcolm.  Macduff.  Enter  Rosse. 

JRosse.  Your  castle  is  surprised ; your  wife  and  babes 
Savagely  slaughtered  : to  relate  the  manner 
Were,  on  the  quarry  of  these  murdered  deer, 

To  add  the  death  of  you. 

Malcolm . Merciful  Heaven ! 

What,  man  ! ne’er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows ; 
Give  sorrow  words  : the  grief,  that  does  not  speak, 
Whispers  the  o’erfraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break. 

Macduff.  My  children  too  ? — All  my  pretty  ones  ? 
Did  you  say,  all  ? O,  hell-kite  ! — All ! 


THE  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  CHILD. 


185 


• Rosse,  Wife,  children,  servants,  all  that  could  be 
found. 

Malcolm . Be  comforted  : 

Let  ’&  make  us  med’cines  of  our  great  revenge, 

To  cure  this  deadly  grief. 

Macduff.  He  has  no  children  ! 


THE  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  CHILD. 

Child  of  the  country ! free  as  air 
Art  thou,  and  as  the  sunshine  fair  ; 

Born,  like  the  lily,  where  the  dew 
Lies  odorous  when  the  day  is  new ; 

Fed  ’mid  the  May-flowers  like  the  bee,' 
Nursed  to  sweet  music  on  the  knee,- 
Lulled  in  t he  breast  to  that  glad  tune 
Which  wi  ads  make  ’mong  the  woods  of  June : 
I sing  of  thee  ; — ’t  is  sweet  to  sing 
Of  such  a fair  and  gladsome  thing. 

Child  of  the  town** ! for  thee  I sigh  ; 

A gilded  roof  ’s  thy  golden  sky, 


186 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


A carpet  is  thy  daisied  sod, 

A narrow  street  thy  boundless  road, 

Thy  rushing  deer ’s  the  clattering  tramp 
Of  watchmen,  thy  best  light ’s  a lamp,  — 
Through  smoke,  and  not  through  trellised  vines 
And  blooming  trees,  thy  sunbeam  shines ; 

I sing  of  thee  in  sadness  ; where 
Else  is  wreck  wrought  in  aught  so  fail’  ? 

Child  of  the  country ! thy  small  feet 
Tread  on  strawberries  red  and  sweet ; 

With  thee  I wander  forth  to  see 
The  flowers  which  most  delight  the  bee ; 

The  bush  o’er  which  the  throstle  sung 
In  April,  while  she  nursed  her  young ; 

The  den  beneath  the  sloe-thorn,  where 
She  bred  her  twins,  the  timorous  hare ; 

The  knoll,  wrought  o’er  with  wild  blue-bells, 
Where  brown  bees  build  their  balmy  cells  ; 

The  green-wood  stream,  the  shady  pool, 

Where  trouts  leap  when  the  day  is  cool  ; 

The  shilfa’s  nest  that  seems  to  be 
A portion  of  the  sheltering  tree,  — 

And  other  marvels  which  my  verse 
Can  find  no  language  to  rehearse. 


THE  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  CHILD. 


187 


Child  of  the  town  ! for  thee,  alas  ! 

Glad  nature  spreads  nor  flowers  nor  grass  ; 
Birds  build  no  nests,  nor  in  the  sun 
Glad  streams  come  singing  as  they  run ; 

A May-pole  is  thy  blossomed  tree, 

A beetle  is  thy  murmuring  bee  ; 

Thy  bird  is  caged,  thy  dove  is  where 
Thy  poulterer  dwells,  beside  thy  hare  ; 

Thy  fruit  is  plucked,  and  by  the  pound 
Hawked  clamorous  all  the  city  round  ; 

No  roses,  twin-born  on  the  stalk, 

Perfume  thee  in  thy  evening  walk  ; 

No  voice  of  birds,  — but  to  thee  comes 
The  mingled  din  of  cars  and  drums, 

And  startling  cries,  such  as  are  rife 
When  wine  and  wassail  waken  strife. 

Child  of  the  country  ! on  the  lawn 
I see  thee  like  the  bounding  fawn, 

Blithe  as  the  bird  which  tries  its  wing 
The  first  time  on  the  wings  of  Spring ; 
Bright  as  the  sun  when  from  the  cloud 
He  comes  as  cocks  are  crowing  loud ; 

Now  running,  shouting,  ’mid  sunbeams, 

Now  groping  trouts  in  lucid  streams, 


188 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Now  spinning  like  a mill-wheel  round, 

Now  hunting  echo’s  empty  sound, 

Now  climbing  up  some  tall  old  tree 
For  climbing  sake.  ’T  is  sweet  to  thee 
To  sit  where  birds  can  sit  alone, 

Or  share  with  thee  thy  venturous  throne. 

Child  of  the  town  and  bustling  street, 
What  woes  and  snares  await  thy  feet ; 

Thy  paths  are  paved  for  five  long  miles, 

Thy  groves  and  hills  are  peaks  and  tiles ; 
Thy  fragrant  air  is  yon  thick  smoke, 

Winch  shrouds  thee  like  a mourning  cloak ; 
And  thou  art  cabined  and  confined 
At  once  from  sun,  and  dew,  and  wind. 

Fly  from  the  town,  sweet  child ! for  health 
Is  happiness,  and  strength,  and  wealth. 

There  is  a lesson  in  each  flower, 

A story  in  each  stream  and  bower ; 

On  every  herb  on  which  you  tread 
Are  written  words  which,  rightly  read, 

Will  lead  you  from  earth’s  fragrant  sod 
To  hope,  and  holiness,  and  God. 


EXTRACT  FROM  “ TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS.”  189 


EXTEACT  FEOM  “TWO  APEIL  MOENINGS.” 

u A picture  is  a silent  poem,  a poem  a speaking  picture.” 

Simonides. 

And  turning  from  the  path,  I met, 

Beside  the  churchyard  yew, 

A blooming  girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

A basket  on  her  head  she  bare ; 

Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white : 

To  see  a child  so  very  fair, 

It  was  a pure  delight ! 

No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
E’er  tripped  with  foot  so  free  ; 

She  seemed  as  happy  as  a wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea. 


9 


190 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


EXTRACT  FROM  “SEASONS  OF  PRAYER.” 

* *• 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother’s  eyes, 
For  her  new-born  infant  beside  her  lies. 

O,  hour  of  bliss ! when  the  heart  o’erflows 
With  rapture  a mother  only  knows : — 

Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer ; 

Let  it  swell  up  to  heaven  for  her  precious  care. 


INNOCENT  CHILD  AND  SNOW-WHITE 
FLOWER. 

Innocent  child  and  snow-white  flower  ! 

Well  are  ye  paired  in  your  opening  hour. 
Thus  should  the  pure  and  the  lovely  meet, 
Stainless  with  stainless,  and  sweet  with  sweet. 
White  as  those  leaves,  just  blown  apart, 

Are  the  folds  of  thy  own  young  heart ; 

Guilty  passion  and  cankering  care 
Never  have  left  their  traces  there. 


INNOCENT  CHILD  AND  SNOW-WHITE  FLOWER.  191 


Artless  one  ! though  thou  gazest  now, 

O’er  the  white  blossom  with  earnest  brow, 
Soon  will  it  tire  thy  childish  eye, 

Fair  as  it  is,  thou  wilt  throw  it  by. 

Throw  it  aside  in  thy  weary  hour, 

Throw  to  the  ground  the  fair  white  flower. 
Yet,  as  thy  tender  years  depart, 

Keep  that  white  and  innocent  heart. 


THE  EARLY  DEAD. 

Weep  not  for  those  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb, 

In  life’s  happy  morning,  hath  hid  from  our  eyes, 
Ere  sin  threw  a blight  o’er  the  spirit’s  young  bloom, 
Or  earth  had  profaned  what  was  meant  for  the 
skies. 

Death  chilled  the  fair  fountain,  ere  sorrow  had 
stained  it; 

’T  was  frozen  in  all  the  pure  light  of  its  course, 
And  but  sleeps  till  the  sunshine  of  Heaven  has  un- 
chained it, 

To  water  that  Eden  where  first  was  its  source. 


192 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Weep  not  for  those,  — in  their  spring-time  they  flew 

r 

To  that  land  where  the  wings  of  the  soul  are  un- 
furled ; 

And  now,  like  the  stars  beyond  evening’s  cold  dew, 
Look  radiantly  down  on  the  tears  of  this  world. 


THE  DEATH  OF  A CHILD. 

Ah  ! not  for  thee  was  woven 
That  wreath  of  joy  and  woe, 

That  crown  of  thorns  and  flowers 
"Which  all  must  wear  below. 

We  bend  in  sadness  o’er  thee, 

Yet  feel  that  thou  art  blest, 

Loved  one  ! so  early  summoned 
To  enter  into  rest. 

E’en  now  thy  bright  young  spirit 
From  earthly  life  is  free  ; 

Now  hast  thou  met  that  Saviour, 
Who  smiled  on  such  as  thee. 


MY  BOY. 


193 


E’en  now  art  thou  rejoicing, 
Unsullied  as  thou  art, 

In  the  blest  vision  promised 
Unto  the  pure  in  heart. 

Thou  Father  of  our  spirits, 

We  can  but  look  to  thee  ! 

Though  chastened,  not  forsaken 
Shall  we  thy  children  be. 

We  take  the  cup  of  sorrow 
As  did  thy  blessed  Son  ; 

Teach  us  to  say  with  Jesus, 

“ Thy  will,  not  ours,  be  done*” 


MY  BOY. 

“ There  is  even  a happiness 
That  makes  the  heart  afraid.” 

Hood. 

One  more  new  claimant  for 
Human  fraternity, 

Swelling  the  flood  that  sweeps 
On  to  eternity. 


194 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


I who  have  filled  the  cup 
Tremble  to  think  of  it ; 

For  be  it  what  it  may, 

I must  yet  drink  of  it. 

Room  for  him  into 
Ranks  of  humanity ; 

Give  him  a place  in  your 
Kingdom  of  vanity  ! 

Welcome  the  stranger 
With  kindly  affection ; 

Hopefully,  trustfully, 

Not  with  dejection. 


See,  in  his  waywardness, 
How  his  fist  doubles ; 
Thus  pugilistical, 

Daring  life’s  troubles. 
Strange  that  the  neophyte 
Enters  existence 
In  such  an  attitude, 
Feigning  resistance. 


MY  BOY. 


195 


Could  he  but  have  a glimpse 
Into  futurity, 

Well  might  he  fight  against 
Further  maturity : 

Yet  does  it  seem  to  me 
As  if  his  purity 
Were  against  sinfulness 
Ample  security. 


Incomprehensible, 
Budding  immortal, 
Thrust  all  amazedly, 
Under  life’s  portal ; 
Born  to  a destiny 
Clouded  in  mystery, 
Wisdom  itself  cannot 
Guess  at  its  history. 


Something  too  much  of  this 
Timon-like  croaking ; 

See  his  face  wrinkle  now, 
Laughter-provoking. 

tr 


196 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


Now  he  cries  lustily,  — 

Bravo,  my  hearty  one  ! 

Lungs  like  an  orator 
Cheering  his  party  on. 

Look  how  his  merry  eyes 
Turn  to  me  pleadingly ! 

Can  we  help  loving  him,  — 
Loving  exceedingly  ? 

Partly  with  hopefulness, 

Partly  with  fears  ; 

Mine,  as  I look  at  him, 

Moisten  with  tears. 

Now  then  to  find  a name ; — 
Where  shall  we  search  for  it  ? 

Turn  to  his  ancestry, 

Or  to  the  Church  for  it  ? 

Shall  we  endow  with 
Title  heroic, 

After  some  warrior, 

Poet,  or  stoic  ? 


MY  BOY. 


197 


One  Aunty  says  he  will 
Soon  “ lisp  in  numbers,” 
Turning  his  thoughts  to  rhyme, 
E’en  in  his  slumbers  ; 

Watts  rhymed  in  babyhood, 

No  blemish  spots  his  fame,  — 
Christen  him  even  so  ; 

Young  Mr.  Watt  ’s  his  name. 


Some  young  children  sported  among  the  tombs, 
and  hid  from  each  other  with  laughing  faces.  They 
had  an  infant  with  them,  and  had  laid  it  down  asleep 
upon  a child’s  grave,  in  a little  bed  of  leaves.  Little 
Nell  drew  near  and  asked  one  of  them  whose  grave 
it  was.  The  child  answered  that  was  not  its  name  : 
it  was  a garden,  — his  brother’s.  It  was  greener, 
he  said,  than  all  the  other  gardens,  and  the  birds 
loved  it  better  because  he  had  been  used  to  feed 
them.  When  he  had  done  speaking,  he  looked  at 
her  with  a smile,  and  kneeling  down  and  nestling  for 
a moment  with  his  cheek  against  the  turf,  bounded 
merrily  away. 


Master  Humphrey’s  Clock. 


198 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


THE  MODEL  BABY. 

It  is  the  image  of  its  father,  unless  it  is  the  very 
picture  of  its  mother.  It  is  the  best-tempered  little 
thing  in  the  world,  never  crying  but  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  or  screaming  but  when  it  is  being 
washed.  It  is  astonishing  how  quiet  it  is  whilst 
feeding.  It  understands  everything,  and  proves  its 
love  for  learning  by  tearing  the  leaves  out  of  every 
book,  and  grasping  at  the  engravings.  It  is  the 
most  wonderful  child  that  was  ever  seen,  and  would 
swallow  both  its  tiny  fists,  if  it  was  not  for  a habit 
of  choking.  It  has  a strange  hostility  for  its  nurse’s 
caps  and  nose,  which  it  will  clutch  and  hold  with 
savage  tenacity,  if  in  the  least  offended.  It  is  very 
playful,  delighting  in  pulling  the  tablecloth  off,  or 
knocking  the  china  ornaments  off  the  mantel-piece,  or 
upsetting  its  food  on  somebody’s  lap.  It  invents  a 
new  language  of  its  own,  almost  before  it  can  speak,' 
which  is  perfectly  intelligible  to  its  parents,  though 
Greek  to  every  one  else.  It  is  not  fond  of  public 
entertainments,  invariably  crying  before  it  has  been 
at  one  five  minutes.  It  dislikes  treachery  in  any 


THE  MODEL  BABY. 


199 


shape,  and  repels  the  spoonful  of  sugar  if  it  fancies 
there  is  a powder  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Medicine  is 
its  greatest  horror,  next  to  cold  water.  It  has  no 
particular  love  for  dress,  generally  tearing  to  pieces 
any  handsome  piece  of  finery,  lace  especially,  as 
soon  as  it  is  put  on. 

It  is  the  cleverest  child  that  ever  was  born,  and 
says  “ Papa,”  or  something  very  like  it,  when  scarce- 
ly a month  old.  It  takes  early  to  pulling  whiskers, 
preferring  those  of  strangers.  It  inquires  deeply 
into  everything,  and  is  very  penetrating  in  the  con- 
struction of  a drum,  the  economy  of  a work-box,  or 
the  anatomy  of  a doll,  which  it  likes  all  the  better 
without  any  head  or  arms. 

It  has  an  intuitive  hatred  of  a doctor,  and  fights 
with  all  its  legs,  and  hands,  and  first  teeth,  against 
his  endearments.  In  fact,  there  never  was  a child 
like  it,  and  the  Model  Baby  proves  this  by  surviv- 
ing the  thousand  and  one  experiments  of  rival 
grannies  and  mothers-in-law,  and  outliving,  to  the 
athletic  age  of  kilts  and  bare  legs,  the  villanous 
compounds  of  Godfrey  and  Dalby,  and  the  whole 
poison-chest  of  elixirs,  carminatives,  cordials,  and 
pills,  which  babies  are  physically  heir  to. 


200 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 

The  old  house  by  the  lindens 
Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 

And  on  the  gravel  pathway, 

The  light  and  shadow  played. 

• 

I saw  the  nursery  windows 
Wide  open  to  the  air, 

But  the  faces  of  the  children 
They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door, 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall, 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 


THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL. 


201 


The  birds  sang  in  the  branches 
With  sweet,  familiar  tone, 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone. 

And  the  boy,  who  walked  beside  me, 
He  could  not  understand 
# Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  ! closer, 

I pressed  his  soft,  warm  hand. 


THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL. 

The  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 
And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 
With  a silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine,  and  fir,  and  hemlock 
Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 
And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  with  pearl. 


202 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


From  sheds,  new  roofed  with  Carrara, 
Came  Chanticleer’s  muffled  crow, 

The  rails  were  softened  to  swan’s  down,  — 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 

I stood  and  watched  by  the  window 
The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 

And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds 
Like  brown  leaves  whistling  by. 

I thought  of  a mound  in  sweet  Auburn 
Where  a little  headstone  stood, 

How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 

As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood. 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  “ Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ? ” 
And  I told  of  the  good  All-father 
Who  cares  for  us  all  below. 

Again  I looked  at  the  snow-fall, 

And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 
That  arched  o’er  our  first  great  sorrow, 
When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 


TWO  YEARS  OLD. 


203 


I remembered  the  gradual  patience 
That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow, 
Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  of  that  deep-stabbed  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I whispered, 

“ The  snow  that  husheth  all, 

Darling,  the  merciful  Father 
Alone  can  make  it  fall ! ” 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I kissed  her, 
And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister 
Folded  close  under  deepening  snow. 


TWO  YEARS  OLD. 

Playing  on  the  carpet  near  me 
Is  a little  cherub  girl ; 

And  her  presence,  much  I fear  me, 
Sets  my  senses  in  a whirl ; 


204 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


For  a book  is  near  me  lying, 

Full  of  grace  philosophizing, 

And  I own  I ’m  vainly  trying 
There  my  thoughts  to  hold  ; 

But,  in  spite  of  my  essaying, 

They  will  evermore  be  straying 
To  that  cherub  near  me  playing, 

Only  two  years  old. 

With  her  hair  so  long  and  flaxen, 
And  her  sunny  eyes  of  blue, 

And  her  cheek#so  plump  and  waxen, 
She  is  charming  to  the  view. 

Then  her  voice,  to  all  who  hear  it, 
Breathes  a sweet  entrancing  spirit. 

O,  to  be  forever  near  it, 

Is  a joy  untold  ; 

For ’t  is  ever  sweetly  telling 
To  my  heart,  with  rapture  swelling, 
Of  affection  inly  dwelling,  — 

Only  two  years  old. 

With  a new  delight  I ’m  hearing 

O O 

All  her  sweet  attempts  at  words, 


TWO  YEARS  OLD. 


205 


In  their  melody  endearing, 

Sweeter  far  than  any  bird’s  ; 

And  the  musical  mistaking 
Which  her  baby  lips  are  making, 

For  my  heart  a charm  is  waking, 
Firmer  in  its  hold 

Than  the  charm  so  rich  and  glowing, 
From  the  Roman’s  lip  o’erflowing ; 
Then  she  gives  a look  so  knowing,  — 
Only  two  years  old.  • 

♦ 

Now  her  ripe  and  honeyed  kisses 
(Honeyed,  ripe,  for  me  alone) 

Thrill  my  soul  with  varied  blisses 
Yenus  never  yet  hath  known,  — 
When  her  twining  arms  are  round  me, 
All  domestic  joy  hath  crowned  me, 
And  a fervent  spell  hath  bound  me, 
Never  to  grow  cold. 

O,  there ’s  not,  this  side  of  Aiden, 
Aught  with  loveliness  so  laden, 

As  my  little  cherub  maiden 
Only  two  years  old. 


206 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


LITTLE  GEORGE’S  STORY. 

My  Aunt  Libby  patted  me  on  the  head  the  other 
day,  and  said,  “ George,  my  boy,  this  is  the  happiest 
part  of  your  life.”  I guess  Aunt  Libby  don’t  know 
much.  I guess  she  never  worked  a week  to  make 
a kite,  and  the  first  time  she  went  to  fiy  it  got  the 
tail  hitched  in  a tall  tree,  whose  owner  would  n’t 
let  her  climb  up  to  disentangle  it.  I guess  she 
never  broke  one  of  the  runners  of  her  sled  some 
Saturday  afternoon  when  it  was  prime  coasting.  I 
guess  she  never  had  to  give  her  biggest  marbles  to 
a great  lubberly  boy,  because  he  would  thrash  her 

if  she  did  n’t I guess  she  never  had  him  twitch 

off  her  best  cap,  and  toss  it  into  a mud-puddle.  I 
guess  she  never  had  to  give  her  humming-top  to 
quiet  the  baby,  and  had  the  paint  all  sucked  off.  I 
guess  she  never  saved  all  her  coppers  a whole  winter 
to  buy  a trumpet,  and  then  was  told  she  must  not 

blow  it,  because  it  would  make  a noise  ! No, 

my  Aunt  Libby  don’t  know  much.  How  should  she  ? 
she  never  was  a boy  ! 


THE  BIKD’S-NEST  IN  THE  MOON. 


207 


THE  BIRD’S-NEST  IN  THE  MOON. 

u Love,  on  this  earth  the  only  mean  thou  art, 

Whereby  we  hold  intelligence  with  heaven, 

And  it  is  thou  that  only  dost  impart 
The  good  that  to  mortality  is  given. 

0 sacred  bond,  by  time  thou  art  not  broken ! 

0 thing  divine,  by  angels  to  be  spoken!  ” 

Drayton. 

I love  to  go  to  the  Moon.*  I never  shake  off 
sublunary  cares  and  sorrows  so  completely  as  when 
I am  fairly  landed  on  that  beautiful  island.  A man 
in  the  Moon  may  see  Castle  Island,  the  city  of 
Boston,  the  ships  in  the  harbor,  the  silver  waters  of 
our  little  Archipelago,  all  lying  as  it  were  at  his  feet. 
There  you  may  be  at  once  social  and  solitary ; social 
because  you  see  the  busy  world  before  you,  and 
solitary,  because  there  is  not  a single  creature  on  the 
island,  except  a few  feeding  cows,  to  disturb  your 
repose.  I was  there  last  summer,  and  was  surveying 
the  scene  with  my  usual  emotions,  when  my  attention 


* Moon  Island,  in  Boston  Harbor. 


208 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


was  attracted  by  the  whirring  wings  of  a little  spar- 
row, whom,  in  walking,  I had  frightened  from  her 
nest.  This  bird,  as  is  well  known,  always  builds  its 
nest  on  the  ground.  I have  seen  their  nests  in  the 
middle  of  a comhill,  curiously  placed  in  the  centre 
of  the  five  green  stalks,  so  that  it  was  difficult,  at 
hoeing  time,  to  dress  the  hill  without  burying  the 
nest.  This  sparrow  had  built  her  nest  beneath  a 
little  tuft  of  grass  more  rich  and  thick  set  than  the 
rest  of  the  herbage  around  it.  I cast  a careless 
glance  at  the  nest,  saw  the  soft  down  that  lined  its 
internal  part,  the  four  little  speckled  eggs  which  en- 
closed the  parent’s  hope.  I marked  the  multitude 
of  cows  that  were  feeding  around  it,  one  tread  of 
whose  cloven  feet  would  crush  both  bird  and  progeny 
into  ruin.  I could  not  but  reflect  on  the  precarious 
condition  to  which  the  creature  had  committed  her 
most  tender  hopes.  A cow  is  seeking  a bite  of  grass ; 
she  steps  aside  to  gratify  that  appetite  ; she  treads 
on  the  nest,  and  destroys  the  offspring  of  the  defence- 
less bird. 

As  I came  away  from  the  island,  I reflected  that 
this  bird’s  situation,  in  her  humble,  defenceless  nest, 
might  be  no  unapt  emblem  of  man  in  this  precarious 


THE  BIRD’S-NEST  IN  THE  MOON. 


209 


world  of  uncertainty  and  sorrow.  We  are  impelled 
by  some  of  the  tenderest  instincts  of  our  nature  to 
form  the  conjugal  connection  ; we  build  our  nest, 
committing  to  it  the  soft  deposits  of  our  gentlest 
affections.  But  where  do  we  build  this  nest?  Are 
we  any  wiser  than  the  foolish  bird  ? No,  — the  nest 
is  on  the  ground  of  terrestrial  calamities,  and  a 
thousand  invisible  dangers  are  roving  around.  We 
are  doubled  in  wedlock , and  multiplied  in  children , 
and  stand  but  a broader  mark  for  the  cruel  arrows 
of  death  and  destruction  which  are  shot  from  every 
side.  What  are  diseases,  in  their  countless  forms, 
accidents  by  flood  and  fire,  the  seductions  of  tempta- 
tion, and  even  half  the  human  species  themselves, 
but  so  many  huge  cows  feeding  around  our  nest,  and 
ready,  every  moment,  to  crush  our  dearest  hopes, 
with  the  most  careless  indifference,  beneath  their 
brutal  tread  ? Sometimes,  as  we  sit  at  home,  we  can 
see  the  calamity  coming  at  a distance.  We  hear 
the  breathing  of  the  vast  monster ; we  mark  its 
wavering  path,  — now  looking  towards  us  in  a direct 
line,  — now  capriciously  turning  for  a moment  aside. 
We  see  the  swing  of  its  dreadful  horns,  the  savage 
rapacity  of  its  brutal  appetite;  we  behold  it  ap- 


210 


PICTURES  AND  FLOWERS. 


proaching  nearer  and  nearer,  and  it  passes  within 
a hair-breadth  of  our  ruin,  leaving  us  to  the  sad 
reflection  that  another  and  another  are  still  behind. 
Poor  bird ! Our  situations  are  exactly  alike.  Thy 
choicest  comforts  come  entwined  with  pain;  and  no 
sooner  is  thy  callow-young  developed,  than  thou  feel- 
est  all  the  cares  that  distract  a parent’s  heart. — 
How  often  hast  thou  been  driven  from  thy  nest! 
How  often  hast  thou  fluttered  thy  wings  in  agony, 
and  taken  up  the  wail  of  sorrow  as  if  thy  children 
were  already  lost.  The  other  evening  I walked  into 
the  chamber  where  my  children  were  sleeping.  There 
was  Willie  with  the  clothes  half  kicked  down,  his 
hands  thrown  carelessly  over  his  head,  tired  with 
play,  now  resting  in  repose ; there  was  Jamie  with 
his  balmy  breath  and  rosy  cheeks,  sleeping  and 
looking  like  innocence  itself.  There  was  Bessie, 
who  has  just  begun  to  prattle,  and  runs  daily 
with  tottering  steps  and  lisping  voice  to  ask  her 
father  to  toss  her  into  the  air.  As  I looked 
upon  these  sleeping  innocents,  I could  not  but  re- 
gard them  as  so  many  little  birds  which  I must 
fold  under  my  wing,  and  protect  if  possible,  in  se- 
curity in  my  nest.  But  when  I thought  of  the  huge 


THE  BIRD  S-NEST  IN  THE  MOON. 


211 


cows  that  were  feeding  around  them  ; the  ugly  hoofs 
that  might  crush  them  into  ruin ; in  short,  when  I 
remembered  the  bird’s-nest  in  the  moon,  I trembled 
and  wept.  But  why  weep  ? Is  there  not  a special 
Providence  in  the  fall  of  a sparrow  ? It  is  very 
possible  that  the  nest  which  I saw  was  not  in  so 
^precarious  a situation  as  it  appeared  to  be.  Perhaps 
some  providential  instinct  led  the  bird  to  build  her 
fragile  house  in  the  ranker  grass,  which  the  kine 
never  bite,  and,  of  course,  on  which  they  would  not 
be  likely  to  tread ; perhaps  some  kind  impulse  may 
guide  that  species  so  as  not  to  tread  even  on  a bird’s 
nest.  There  is  a merciful  God,  whose  care  and 
protection  extend  over  all  his  works,  who  takes  care 
of  the  sparrow’s  children  and  of  mine.  The  very 
hairs  of  our  head  are  all  numbered . 


“ Take  heed  that  ye  despise  not  one  of  these  little  ones  ; for 
I say  unto  you,  that  in  heaven  their  angels  do  always  behold  the 
face  of  my  Father.” 


Christ. 


